


Parallel Lines

by poetzproblem



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Ficlet Collection, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 20,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetzproblem/pseuds/poetzproblem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and ficlets from various universes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flash

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** Most of these were originally posted on tumblr but were never archived until now. Unbetaed, so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> The first drabble is set after _On My Way_. The prompt was _"Quinn sees two aspects of her life flash before her eyes: Beth and Rachel."_
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

They say that your life flashes before your eyes in the moments before you die—that you see all your loved ones, every wonderful moment, and the not so wonderful ones. Maybe it's an electrical reaction in the brain—a rapid playback of every stored memory triggered by adrenaline—or maybe it’s the hand of God, reaching down to hold a mirror to your life before issuing judgment.

In that split second when the glass shatters, the sickening crunch of buckling metal crushes bone and rips into skin, and the air is forcibly wrenched from her lungs, Quinn sees nothing of the life that she’s lived. Instead, she sees the life that could have been.

She sees Beth, blonde and beautiful, angelic face split into a wide grin and joyful with childish laughter. She feels a tiny, warm hand secure within her own and hears a sweet little voice call her ‘mommy.’ Quinn’s heart feels painfully full, and she bends to scoop her daughter up into her arms, reveling in the solid weight of that promising, little life pressed against her chest. Chubby hands cup her cheeks and miniature hazel eyes shine brightly into her own.

Quinn has never known such a perfect moment.

A single heartbeat passes.

Another hand appears, darker than her own, brushing the backs of gentle fingers against Beth’s cherubic cheek. Quinn’s gaze follows that hand, up along the arm until she’s looking into wide brown eyes so full of love and adoration that it takes her breath away. Rachel smiles at her, soft and tender and sweeter than any smile that she’s ever given to Finn Hudson. ' _My pretty girls_ ,' she whispers lovingly, curling her other hand around Quinn’s waist as their bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Quinn feels warm and safe, with Beth in her arms and Rachel’s arms around the both of them.

Another heartbeat passes.

Beth’s little arms tighten around Quinn’s neck, and Rachel’s lips grant a kiss, wet against the corner of Quinn’s mouth. ' _I love you_ ,' she hears in that melodic voice that has carried her through the last three years.

That voice that carries her.

"I love you," Quinn rasps on a broken sob— _both of you_ , she thinks as the moment slips away and the life that could have been disappears.

And that voice carries her…


	2. You Should Have Been There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Drabble written for a tumblr photoset made by im-subtextsexual. Set after the episode _Choke._

_"You should have been there, Quinn. It was like a nightmare.”_

" _I was there, Rachel. My heart broke for you.”_

Rachel’s eyes sting with the tears that have been constant companions since Carmen Tibideaux callously ended her dream of NYADA and New York. She drags in a ragged breath as she stares at the floor. Quinn was there at her audition? She’d seen?

“I…I don’t know what to do,” she whispers brokenly. “I feel like I’m stuck in some horrible dream, and I can’t wake myself up.” She turns to Quinn, desperation seeping into her voice without her consent. “How do I wake up?”

Hazel eyes are shining with sympathetic tears and the sight of them makes Rachel feel sick. She’s looking down at Quinn, because Quinn is in a  _wheelchair_. Her own pathetic failure is  _nothing_ in comparison, and her shoulders hunch in shame. She’s crying harder now because she realizes that her nightmare started months ago—with Quinn’s accident. Nothing is happening the way it’s supposed to. She can barely even recognize herself anymore, and all she wants is to be able to close her eyes and wake up at the beginning of senior year and do everything over again.

Quinn should  _hate_  her now—she should be shaking her head in disappointment and wheeling away—but instead she’s reaching out her hand, seeking Rachel’s and holding on for all she’s worth. “Open your eyes, Rachel,” Quinn commands gently. “New York is still right where it’s always been, waiting for Rachel Berry to steal the spotlight and never give it back.”

“But I blew my chance at NYADA…”

“So what?” Quinn growls. “It’s one school. Did Patti LuPone go to NYADA?”

Rachel shakes her head, “N-no, but she graduated from Juilliard.”

Quinn ignores her, squeezing her hand and leaning forward in her chair, eyes blazing with intensity. “Did Barbra Streisand go to NYADA?”

Rachel gasps, and her eyes widen. Barbra hadn’t. She hadn’t even gotten into the Actor’s Studio. She’d taken acting lessons from a friend. Quinn sees the glimmer of realization light Rachel’s gloomy expression, and she offers a crooked smile.

“You don’t need some prestigious program to become the next Barbra, Rach.”

Rachel wants to believe—she does—but it’s not that easy. She shakes her head sadly. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Quinn, but…it’s more than getting into the school I wanted, okay? I…I just…lost it. I forgot the words and I…I couldn’t move past that moment. The show must go on, and a performer has to be able to recover from those moments, and I…I couldn’t.”

Quinn sighs and tugs on her hand, pulling Rachel closer. “Hey, look at me,” she urges, waiting patiently until Rachel brushes away her tears and meets Quinn’s eyes. “I’ve screwed up so many times, Rachel. You’ve seen me do it…seen me at my lowest…and you’re the one who’s always reminding me that I’m better that I know. Well, it’s my turn now, so listen to me. You…you are better than you know, Rachel Berry, so don’t you dare give up on yourself now. If you do,” Quinn pauses, voice crackling with emotion, “if you do, then what hope do I have?”

Rachel closes her eyes and chokes back a sob.  “Oh, Quinn…no…you…you’re getting out of here. You have Yale…”

“Because you helped me realize that my mistakes don’t define me. Yours don’t define you either, Rachel. Please don’t give up on your dreams because of one set back. You belong in New York, on stage, and someday soon, I’m going to be sitting in the front row on opening night, watching your debut on Broadway. I’ve always known that.”

Rachel stares down into Quinn’s earnest face, and her breath hitches. “Y-you really believe that,” she murmurs in awe.

“Of course I do. You’re Rachel Berry,” Quinn says with a shrug, as if that’s all the explanation that Rachel should need. Looking at Quinn—the girl who was once her biggest critic—Rachel feels her heart flutter oddly, and without even thinking, she sinks down into an awkward semi-squat and wraps her arms around Quinn’s shoulders, burying her nose into crook of her neck.

“Thank you, Quinn,” she whispers, feeling a tiny spark of hope reignite in her soul.

Quinn’s arms circle her waist and pull her as close as she’s able. “Don’t thank me, Rach. Just promise me that you won’t forget who you are, okay?”

Rachel pulls back, smiling for the first time in three days. “I promise to try, and if I have trouble remembering, I know you’ll remind me.”

“You can count on it,” Quinn vows with an odd glint in her eye, and Rachel has never believed in anything more.  

 


	3. Let Me Be Your Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Ficlet written for Faberry Week in December 2012 for the Crossover prompt. Smash!Faberry.

She's halfway through her second mental performance of  _Don't Rain On My Parade_ , mildly bouncing her legs up and down in remembered choreography, when the door across from her swings open. Rachel automatically looks up, briefly catching the eyes of the pretty young brunette exiting the room. The girl looks lost and disappointed, and Rachel remembers all too well her own early auditions when she'd expected to wow every casting director every single time, only to be greeted with indifferent expressions or the tops of heads bowed over phones. She's older and wiser—maybe a little jaded these days—but she's certainly learned enough to know that you never, ever let your show face slip. At least, not until you're alone.

"Rachel Berry," comes the call from the doorway, and Rachel stands, picking up her bag and walking into the room with confidence.

"Hello," she greets with her sweetest smile in place, taking a quick mental tally of the people sitting behind the table—the ones who could finally lift her out of perpetual chorus girl status. There are two gentlemen (one most certainly gay) and a woman who could probably go either way. Rachel bends over to place her bag on the floor, and she can almost feel six pairs of eyes fastened onto her jean-clad ass. She's not above using some of her better assets to her advantage. When she stands, she sees three smiles that weren't there before, and she grins. "Would you like to hear the ballad first, or the up-tempo?" she asks.

Rachel has a really good feeling about this one.

_xx_

Her good feeling disappears that evening. She reports for work as usual—fifth angel in the chorus of  _Heaven On Earth_ —only to find out when she checks her messages before curtain that she's failed to get a callback yet again. She sits in the dressing room with her head in her hands while the other girls shuffle around putting the finishing touches on their makeup.

"Hey, you can't be in here," one of them says.

"Please, I own the rights to your feathered derriere," Rachel hears, and she chokes out a watery chuckle as she glances up into the mirror's reflection to see Kurt Hummel—one of the show's creators and one of her closest friends for a couple of years now. He'd be the perfect guy for her if he wasn't one-hundred and fifty percent gay.

His twinkling eyes catch hers, and his grin fades as he crosses the room and sinks down in the chair next to her. "Oh, Rachel, honey. What's the matter?"

"I had an audition this morning. I didn't get the part," she sighs, collapsing into his side when he loops an arm around her shoulder.

"Do you want to leave us?"

"You know I love this show," she says, meeting Kurt's eyes in the mirror. "I love  _you_."

His lips curve into a knowing smile. "But the ensemble not so much."

"I just want a part," she grumbles. "I trained. I'm a trained," she trails off, because he knows. She went to NYADA. She was the rising star of her class. Her mother is a successful Broadway actress. But none of that has translated to success. "I'm not complaining," she vows sadly.

"Just dreaming. Like all of us," he says, rubbing her shoulder soothingly. "It's just a matter of time, honey," he promises. "And speaking of that," he pulls back, grin firmly back on his face, "Santana and I are working on another brilliant Lopez Hummel production, and we really need a favor."

Rachel sits back in her seat, smiling a little. "How is Santana?"

"Oh, you know her," he rolls his eyes, waving a dismissive hand, "wrist deep in lesbian drama. Dani wants to procreate—can you even imagine Santana as a mommy?"

Rachel really can't. "What do you need, Kurt?" she prods, knowing that once he starts on the gossip, he can go for hours, and she doesn't have the time. She has to be on her mark in ten minutes. Ensemble or not, she's a professional.

"We're writing a musical based on Marilyn Monroe's life, and we have one solid number that we'd like you to demo for us so we can start shopping for backers."

Rachel's interest is immediately peaked. It's certainly not Barbra Streisand, but, "Marilyn Monroe? Are you serious?"

"I know, I know. It's insane, right? But Marilyn's life is just so ripe with drama. We're going to be focusing on her early career and her relationship with Joe DiMaggio."

"You can write a baseball number," she murmurs, already picturing it in her mind.

"Exactly," he exclaims, snapping his fingers. "So what do you say? Come help us out, and I promise I'll do whatever I can to get you in on the workshop."

She knows it's not a guarantee of a starring role, but it's a better opportunity than she's been handed in a long time. It's what makes her lips curl into a slow smile. "I say when and where."

_xx_

The song is brilliant. Kurt sits at the piano, playing the melody as Rachel sings.

 _As the wise men once wrote_  
_Never give all the heart_  
 _Well, it's easy to see_  
 _He was writing for me_  
 _I just wish I could play that part._

Santana Lopez stands on the other side of the piano, eyes closed and brows furrowed as she listens. Rachel watches the woman's face grimace a bit as she sings out the last phrase, and she stops immediately, asking, "Do you want that belted?"

Santana opens her eyes, tapping a fingernail on the piano top. "I want it to break my cold, black heart, Berry," she snaps, and Rachel frowns. "Look, you've got an amazing set of pipes. We all know that. We also know you can turn on the emotion when you want to, so stop playing it safe."

Rachel narrows her eyes. She hates it when people accuse her of being  _safe._ "Hit it, Kurt."

_xx_

The video goes viral, courtesy of Kurt's prissy new assistant, Kitty. Rachel can't say she's unhappy about it, because it's her face and her voice getting hits on YouTube, and all the comments seem to be positive. Well, there are a few unnecessary references to her nose—nothing she hasn't heard a hundred times in the business—but other than those, there seems to be a genuine interest about Kurt and Santana's newest musical endeavor.

Two weeks later, she gets a phone call from Kurt, and she holds her breath as she listens to him speak. "Sue Sylvester is absolutely in love with the concept. She wants to produce the musical, but she…well, she wants us to audition Quinn Fabray," he spits the name.

Rachel bites into her lip. Quinn Fabray is probably the hottest choreographer and director on Broadway right now. She's already responsible for bringing two Tony Award nominated musicals to life, one of which is the reason that Kurt's voice is filled with contempt. They'd worked together once before, and to hear him tell the story, Quinn used every dirty trick and feminine wile in her possession to ensure that the producer deferred to her vision for the show over Kurt's. By all accounts, Quinn is a bitch to work with—a demanding perfectionist with no sense of humor—but she's also a genius. Rachel would kill for the opportunity to be in this show, so when Kurt asks her to workshop a number as Marilyn to see how Quinn Fabray will stage it, she has to count to five to stop herself from screaming  _yes_  into the phone.

_xx_

Rachel arrives suitably early on the day of the workshop. Kurt gives her a hug, whispering, "Thank you so much for doing this. You may need to keep me from slapping that bit…" He snaps his mouth closed, pursing his lips into an unhappy frown, and Rachel turns to look at the two women who have just walked into the studio.

She recognizes the taller blonde as Sue Sylvester, and the woman makes a beeline for Santana Lopez, slapping her on the shoulder and saying, "Hey there, Funbags. Just took a look at the latest song you lazy gays sent over, and I'm telling you, if you keep popping out those showstoppers like the octo-mom pops out kids, we're gonna have a real smash on our hands."

Rachel snickers a little at the woman's crassness, but no one can really argue with the list of hit stage shows under her belt. The bulk of her attention, however, stays on the younger blonde, standing with a hand on her hip as she surveys the room and its sparse occupants with unmasked disdain. Quinn Fabray is even more beautiful than Rachel had been told, and she isn't ashamed to admit that she takes a moment to fully appreciate the visual. Sharp hazel eyes focus on Rachel in mid-perusal, and a single tawny eyebrow arches up. Rachel feels a shiver work down her spine at the measuring look, and she hurriedly glances away.

She nearly squeals when she sees her friend Sam saunter into the room, and his face lights up in a happy smile as he rushes toward her. "Rachel, baby," he calls out, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her off the floor in a graceful spin.

"Samuel," she laughs, hugging him tight. "Why did no one inform me that you'd be here?"

"What? Did you think I'd miss the chance to dance in a baseball number? When am I ever going to have the chance to do that again?"

Rachel grins, patting his chest, happy to have another friend here. "You and your sports. You're worse than my ex-boyfriend."

"Oh, sweetheart. I'm so much better than him," he boasts, curling his arm around her waist and whispering in her ear, "Just ask  _my_  ex-boyfriend."

Rachel's loud laughter catches the attention of the room, and she quickly composes herself, flushing when she notices Quinn Fabray's irritated gaze back on her. The blonde shakes her head, stepping to the front of the room and clapping her hands. "Everyone get warmed up. Quickly. In fifteen minutes, I'm going to show you the choreography, and I expect you to have it learned and perfected in twenty. I don't have all day to waste."

"Oooh," Sam breathes. "This is going to be fun."

Rachel nods, smiling a little, until Quinn glares sharply at them. "You two. This isn't social hour. Flirt on your own time." She turns her back on them and paces over to the corner where Sue and Santana are still talking. Kurt is standing a bit to the side, arms crossed and shaking his head at Quinn. Quinn sneers at him, cocking her hip, and Rachel knows that the bad blood between them goes both ways.

Sam chuckles, turning to face Rachel. "Come on. Let's get warmed up before she comes over here and spanks us."

Rachel chokes back a laugh, lightly punching Sam in the shoulder. "Stop it. I'd actually like to get on her good side."

"Oh, honey. Rumor has it Quinn Fabray doesn't have a good side."

"I don't know. Her backside is fairly attractive," Rachel drawls before she can stop herself.

Sam shakes his head. "Don't even go there," he warns.

Rachel sighs, silently conceding that she'd likely never have the chance to  _go there_  anyway, even if her own romantic history has been fairly evenly split between men and women since her college days. She and Sam play catch up with their lives while they warm up—she really shouldn't have let so much time pass since she'd last seen him.

Their conversation stops when Quinn calls them all to attention. She walks up to Rachel first, eyeing her up and down before shaking her head. "Stand over there for now and pay attention. Watch me, and I'll take you through the routine when I've got your chorus line whipped into shape."

Rachel huffs, crossing her arms, but she does as she's told, standing on the sidelines next to Kurt as she watches Quinn quickly and precisely explain what she expects of the male dancers, stopping briefly to demonstrate.

"She's an inhuman robot, but she's damned talented," Kurt grudgingly admits, and Rachel hums in agreement as she watches the choreography come together.

Eventually, Quinn crooks a finger in Rachel's direction. "Time for your blocking, Marilyn."

Rachel bristles a bit, but she glides over to Quinn with a pleasant smile. If she could survive having Cassandra July as a dance instructor at NYADA, she can certainly manage to take direction from Quinn Fabray.

"Okay. I'll keep this simple for you, sweetie," she says, lightly gripping Rachel's shoulders and moving her into position while Rachel does her best not to react to being man-handled. "You'll start here, first verse, cross to center stage, but sex it up—you  _can_  sex it up, I assume," Quinn checks with that damnable eyebrow inching up again.

"Yes," she hisses in response. If Quinn Fabray wants sex, Rachel will give her sex. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

"Good, so you cross center, like this," she says, strutting to Rachel's next mark with a hand on her hip and a sway to her step that makes Rachel's mouth go momentarily dry. "Turn and pose," Quinn instructs, lifting her arm and executing a sexy half-curtsey, "then quickstep to the table. The boys will lift you. Let them do their job and follow their lead. You were watching me take them through the routine?" she asks, and Rachel nods. "Good, let's do a run through."

Rachel's eyes widen. Quinn notices, and she grins a little smugly. "Don't worry, Marilyn. First time through, just follow me. I won't let you fall on your ass."

"My name is  _Rachel_."

"I don't actually care," Quinn says, moving Rachel back to her mark and standing beside her. "Let's go everyone. From the top." She snaps her fingers, and begins to count, giving Rachel a nudge when it's time to push off.

Rachel tries to ignore Quinn shadowing her every step, counting in her face and calling out instructions, but it's nearly impossible. Flustered, she misses a few steps, causing Quinn to roll her eyes, but the woman gently corrects her as they move through the routine. Rachel realizes that her choreography is relatively simple, designed to be carried in large part by the dancers while still making her look good. She's fairly confident that she's got it down after the first run through, and she says as much.

"We'll see," Quinn says.

Sam brushes past Rachel as he takes his mark, leaning down to murmur, "Kick some ass, Rach."

She smiles in gratitude and takes her own mark, ready to perform. "I'm not getting any younger here," Sue shouts. "Wow me, people."

Quinn turns to her small audience of Sue, Santana, and Kurt. "Imagine Marilyn in a red dress," she glances back over her shoulder at Rachel and sighs, "with blonde hair and about fifty percent less nose."

Rachel squeaks, ready to forget her manners and tear into Quinn, but the musicians are already counting off, so she forces away her indignation and focuses on blowing Quinn Fabray's mind. And Kurt's, Santana's, and Sue's, of course. Rachel really, really wants this part, and she may suddenly have something to prove to Quinn Fabray.

The music begins, and Rachel lets herself become Marilyn Monroe as she sings, dancing her way through the choreography with every ounce of sexuality she possesses.

 _So run me 'round the bases,_  
_Put me through my paces,_  
 _And teach me all the things a slugger's lover_  
 _Should know!_

Quinn stands in the corner of the room, watching the performance with an unreadable expression, but her gaze keeps coming back unerringly to Rachel. Sue is grinning widely, Santana looks happy, which is actually somewhat of an accomplishment, and Kurt seems reluctantly impressed. Rachel's smile grows a little more confident, and she relaxes into her role, losing herself to the joy of performing. It's been such a long time since she felt this kind of rush.

Before she knows it, she's belting out the final lines of the song.

_Yes, my style and my fashion'll_   
_Elevate the national_   
_Pastime!_

Rachel and the dancers strike their final pose, and Santana lets out a loud whoop, clapping enthusiastically. "That was great. Wasn't that great, Kurt," she nudges her partner.

He grins tightly, nodding, "It was nice." She elbows him, glaring, and he rubs at his side. "Yes, great," he says to everyone.

"Nice work, everyone," Quinn concedes with the first trace of genuine smile that Rachel has seen on her face all afternoon. Santana goes over to speak with her as Kurt approaches Rachel.

"You were really great," he murmurs, bending to kiss her cheek. "Thank you so much for putting up with that and still being fabulous."

"I've worked with more difficult directors," Rachel shrugs. "And you can't argue with the end result."

"You're too nice," Kurt tells her.

Rachel frowns. "I simply have a healthy respect for talent and hard work."

She notices Quinn packing up her bag and getting ready to leave, and she makes the decision to try to end the experience on a positive note with the person she hopes will soon be her director, despite her somewhat abrasive personality. She walks over to Quinn with a friendly smile, clearing her throat slightly to get the woman's attention. Quinn's eyes meet hers, and Rachel swears there's a spark of  _something_ close to interest in them, and a tiny curve to pink lips that almost seems like an answering smile.

"I wanted to tell you what an honor it's been to work with you," Rachel says amiably.

"Yeah, " Quinn breathes. She reaches out to cup Rachel's shoulder, and their eyes meet for a strange, tense moment before Quinn pulls her hand back like it's been burned, mumbling, "thanks, Rachel." She shoulders her bag and heads for the door, leaving Rachel to stare after her with a frown.

Kurt comes up behind her, shaking his head. "I told you. Not even human."

Rachel nods distractedly, thinking that it has to be a some kind of accomplishment that Quinn Fabray finally addressed her by name. She steels her shoulders and nods again, more firmly, suddenly even more determined to get this part and prove to everyone, including difficult, (gorgeous) frustrating directors, that Rachel Berry is destined to be a star.


	4. The Con

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : Drabble written for a Samchel/Faberry plot bunny that never hopped any further than this. Originally posted for Professor Spork's birthday circa 2013.

It was all Sam's fault.

Of all the people that Quinn might have expected to rally around a heartbroken and despondent Rachel Berry, Sam Evans was at the very bottom of the very short list. As far as she'd known, they'd spoken to one another what? Four times in two years? Yet Sam had somehow become Rachel's new, very bestest friend. Ugh!

"We just have this connection, Quinn," he'd told her one day in mid July after she'd tracked him down at the Hummel's and demanded to know why she'd seen him outside of the Berry house with his arms wrapped around Rachel's diminutive form. Not that Quinn was being all creepy stalker or anything—she'd just happened to drive over there hoping to finally talk to Rachel because the girl hadn't answered her phone or replied to any of Quinn's text messages since she'd gotten back from her brief trip to New York. Seeing Sam there almost caused Quinn to drive her car up over the curb and into a mailbox.

"You wouldn't understand," he'd added, managing to piss her off even more in the process.

"Try me," she'd demanded, crossing her arms and glaring at him. "Or better yet, why don't we call Mercedes and see if  _she_  understands."

That's when Sam had slumped against the sofa, dropped his head into hands, and mumbled out a dejected, "We broke up."

Guilt settled into Quinn's stomach at the admission. She hadn't known. In fact, she hadn't talked to Mercedes or Sam at all since they'd all seen off Rachel at the train station last month. Sinking down next to him, Quinn tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. "What happened?" she'd asked gently.

Watery green eyes came up to meet hers. "She's leaving for Los Angeles next week," and his tone might have been just a little critical, like Quinn should have known this already. "She doesn't want a long distance relationship."

"Oh," Quinn breathed out, feeling sympathy for her friends, and, "Oh," she said again as she began to understand his new-found friendship with Rachel.

"Yeah," he sighed on a nod. "I sort of get what Rachel's going through, and we kind of…bonded. Over…stuff."

It was the "stuff"—and Quinn's inability to let the new Samchel friendship continue to develop unsupervised—that had gotten her into trouble. Now, somehow, here she was, dressed in the black pleather (because Rachel was all about PETA) pants and slightly modified jacket that they'd used back in junior year for their mash-up, a red cape draped over her shoulders, and a big, foam hammer in her hands, standing in the middle of the Columbus comic convention and surrounded by a thousand and one costumed geeks. She felt like a fool. How in the hell had she let them talk her into this?

"Quinn, while smiling might be considered out of character for Thor," Rachel said, lightly tapping her shoulder to get her attention, "perhaps you might try to look a little less…ah…murderous."

She glared at Rachel—who Quinn really wished looked a little more ridiculous in her own black pleather cat suit and red wig. "I don't understand why I couldn't be Black Beauty."

"Because Black Beauty is a horse," Rachel huffed in a very offended tone. "I am cos-playing Black  _Widow_ , and you aren't because you don't even know  _who she is_ ," she growled with her hands on her hips.

Sam, dressed as Captain America, chose that moment to bound over and wedge himself between them, wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders with a wide, boyish grin. He'd forgone the mask, but his shield pressed uncomfortably into Quinn's biceps. "This is the coolest thing ever," he gushed. "I am so psyched." He landed a sloppy, enthusiastic kiss to Quinn's cheek. "Thanks so much for doing this with us, Quinn." Quinn couldn't help but grin at his antics, until he bent down to ghost a softer, lingering kiss to Rachel's cheek. "And thank you for being awesome and making us these costumes," he murmured in a disgustingly besotted voice. "You're the best, Rachel."

Rachel blushed as scarlet as her wig, and Quinn remembered exactly why she'd agreed to come.  Captain America was not going to win this one. 


	5. A Single Scar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Drabble written for the Scars prompt for Faberry Week, June 2014.

Even after all these years, Quinn still hates the puckered, pale lines that crisscross her body. The stretchmarks that she’d dreaded at sixteen are invisible beneath the angry map of scars left by broken glass, twisted metal, and a surgeon’s scalpel. Every mirror that she passes has been her enemy for years.  

No matter how many times Rachel has told her that she’s still beautiful, inside and out, or reverently kissed each and every scar on her body and whispered words of gratitude that Quinn is still here, stronger for being broken, Quinn has never quite believed her.  

Until now.

Quinn's lips trail a slow, careful path along the six inch scar that mars the otherwise perfect skin of her wife’s belly, and she trembles, remembering the fear and helplessness that had paralyzed her as doctors had urgently spoken of fading vitals and emergency surgery—as what should have been a happy event turned life-threatening. Rachel breathes beneath her, sifting her fingers through Quinn’s hair as her belly rises and falls steadily under Quinn’s fervent kisses.

The soft coos of their precious, two-month old daughter tickle their ears from the crib in the corner of their room, and Quinn finally understands the beauty of a single scar.


	6. Appearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Drabble set in the _Acceptance/Remembrance_ universe.

The first time she sits down for a honest to goodness interview, Rachel is twenty-seven, and she’s sitting right next to Quinn Fabray. She knows that she’ll remember the moment exactly because it’s about to be recorded for all of posterity. The lights in the studio overhead are blazing hot, and she’s sweating beneath her make-up, and she feels like she might just throw up. A glance over at Quinn tells her that she’s not the only one feeling nervous, so she attempts to smile because they’d both agreed to do this together. Quinn inhales deeply, letting her eyelids flutter closed for just a second, before she meets Rachel’s eyes with confidence and reaches over to take her hand, entwining their fingers.

The last few weeks have been simultaneously wonderful and terrible. The Tony Award on her shelf is wonderful. Quinn Fabray in her bed every night is even more wonderful. The constant swarm of paparazzi and barrage of gossip magazine exclusives since their backstage kiss had gone viral is not wonderful at all. Through it all, Quinn has insisted that she’s never been happier, and Rachel can’t do anything but believe her when she’s gazing into those gorgeous hazel eyes. Still, this isn’t quite the way that Rachel had imagined her star shooting to instant fame. She’d gone from a tiny taste of Broadway famous to national notoriety practically overnight, and almost every person that she and Quinn had gone to high school with had crawled out of the woodwork, selling a story about their past to make a quick buck.

So now they’re going to set the record straight, as it were. Rachel would certainly have preferred her first appearance on a talk show be centered solely around her own accomplishments and fantastic talent, but she’s become something of an expert at adapting to unexpected changes in her plans, and as far as those go, Quinn is absolutely the best detour that she’s ever taken. She doesn’t regret a moment, except perhaps the moments that they’d wasted on their way to this point. So when the cameras begin to roll, and Robin Roberts smiles and welcomes them, Rachel smiles right back, unashamedly keeping her hold on Quinn’s hand and ready to tell the world how completely Quinn holds her heart.

She doesn’t care if America falls in love with her or not, because Quinn already has, and that’s all that matters.   


	7. The Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Drabble inspired by a Faberry prompt for Age Difference.

Quinn hates waiting. That doesn’t mean that she’s incapable of doing it, of course. In fact, most people, after getting to know her and discovering little snippets of her history, would probably conclude that she possesses an endless wealth of monumental patience. This isn’t entirely because she happens to be married to Rachel Berry, who some would argue is anything but patient herself and, therefore, requires at least three times the normal level of perseverance to endure. People who actually have the nerve to say that in Quinn’s presence usually regret it pretty quickly. No, Quinn had learned to bite her tongue and bide her time during a childhood of enforced solitude as she’d quietly planned a thorough transformation from chubby to cheerleader and then committed to the long, painful process of shedding her skin. Then she’d relearned it during the long, painful years when Rachel had been firmly in her heart but completely out of her reach.

Quinn is capable of being extremely patient.

Sometimes, it pays off in the most wonderful, unexpected ways. Rachel is hers now in every way imaginable.

But Quinn still hates waiting.

She clearly remembers the nine, long months of waiting for Beth to be born and her body to become her own again. Before that, she’d endured the five agonizing minutes it had taken to discover whether or not her life would be completely and irrevocably changed forever. That was worse than waiting for the period that never came.

It’s amazing what time can do to change your perspective on things, even if those five minutes aren’t any easier the second time around.

For one thing, this moment has been fully planned for months in advance. Of course, that’s pretty much a necessity since they’re both lacking one key piece of equipment to make this happen naturally, no matter how often they’d attempted it.

For another, there’d been no lonely, nerve-wrecking drive to Findlay this time—instead they’d made the purchase together with Rachel obsessively reading and rereading every word on every box for every brand of test that their local drugstore carries.

They’d bought three different kinds at Rachel’s insistence because, “It never hurts to be thorough, Quinn.”

Rachel’s natural impatience had manifested itself the moment that Quinn had opened the box. Well, to be honest, Rachel has been bouncing off the walls for the last six days, and Quinn couldn’t really argue with her insistence to find out as soon as possible when they both really, really hate to wait.

So here they are—Quinn sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, praying for the opposite result than she’d prayed for when she’d been fifteen, and watching her wife re-categorize her vinyl collection in an attempt to distract herself from their bathroom where three little, plastic sticks are sitting on the counter and waiting to decide their future.

Rachel freezes when the alarm on her cellphone rings, nearly dropping her original Broadway cast recording of _Hair_ in the process. She looks at Quinn with wide, nervous eyes, and Quinn imagines that she’s probably looking back with the same expression.

“Quinn,” Rachel whispers uncertainly.

“Yeah.”

“We…we should probably,” she trails off, nodding toward the open bathroom door.

“Yeah,” Quinn repeats, but her body suddenly feels incredibly heavy and weighted to the mattress.

Rachel doesn’t move from her spot. Quinn doesn’t know if she’s ever seen her wife be quite that still.

“Um…are…are you going to look?” Rachel finally asks after a long moment.

“Yeah.”

Quinn shakes her head in silent frustration at her sudden inability to function. She might as well be fifteen again when she drags herself up onto trembling legs, heart racing and dizziness overwhelming her, but this time, Rachel is there to catch her hand and squeeze it tight. They step into the bathroom together, and Quinn can feel Rachel practically vibrating next to her, but before they look at the tests laying across the counter, Rachel stops her.

“I love you,” she says simply. “No matter what the result…we’ll still be us. And we’ll be okay.”

Quinn smiles, feeling some of the nerves ease, though the butterflies are still going crazy in her stomach, and she unconsciously presses her hand there. “I love you too,” she murmurs, leaning down to catch those soft, familiar lips in a chaste kiss. For luck.

She turns to the counter again, glancing down at the tests as Rachel hovers next to her, tucked into her side. She turns her face into Quinn’s shoulder. “I can’t look,” she mumbles.

Quinn can.

And she does.

She sees three identical results before they blur behind her tears. Rachel’s head comes up from her shoulder when a gentle sob shakes her body, and Quinn is immediately pulled into her wife’s arms. “Shh, Quinn, it’s okay,” Rachel murmurs soothingly, stroking her hair with one hand as she rubs a gentle circle on her back with the other. “We…we can try again,” she promises with a telling catch in her voice.

Quinn smiles wetly into Rachel’s neck and hugs her closer before she gazes down at her tearful wife. She shakes her head, takes a breath, and tastes the words on her tongue as they fall out—sweet where they’d once been bitter.

“I’m pregnant.”

Once upon a time, those words had felt like the end of her life. Now they feel like a beginning.

Quinn doesn’t have to wait a single second for the joy to illuminate Rachel’s face. It mirrors the joy in her heart. If she gets to see and feel this for the next nine months, for once, she might not mind the waiting.


	8. Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Drabble set in _A Soft White_ universe.

“Oh, my god. Oh, my god. I love you so much. Casey is my absolute favorite character ever!”

Rachel tries not to roll her eyes as she listens to the girl continue to gush over her wife. She and Quinn had been on their way out of the restaurant when they’d been recognized by three teenagers. The boy, tall and gangly with acne peppered on his forehead, had been the first to approach, with a timidly excited, “Excuse me, Ms. Berry. I just wanted to tell you that I adore your album. Your voice just gives me chills.”

He’d been so polite about it that, of course, Rachel had gladly stopped to bask in his accolades and give him an autograph. That had been all the invitation his two friends had needed to come over to join him. The blonde girl was too shy to speak to either of them, though there’s been an awed smile on her lips the whole time as she looks back and forth between the both of them with her autographed backpack (that her friend, Stanley, had asked them for on her behalf) clutched tightly between her fists.

The brunette, on the other hand, had barely spared Rachel a cursory glance before she’d zeroed in on Quinn. She’d held back just long enough to take pictures of her friends with both of them before demanding that Stanley take her picture with Quinn. Just Quinn.

Rachel is trying to pay attention to Stanley as he continues to tell her how he can’t wait until she’s back on Broadway now that he’s (barely) old enough to see a show, but she can’t keep her ears from tuning in on Quinn’s—

“…biggest fan, I swear,” the girl says. “You have such amazing chemistry with Ben,” she points out, using the name of Quinn’s costar instead of his character’s name. “I’ve seen every video and interview of the two of you. That one from Chicago, when you guys were filming on location, where he, you know, puts his arm around you and gazes deeply into your eyes and says you guys are soulmates…I just about died.”

Rachel frowns at that, ignoring poor Stanley and the blonde completely now. She’d hated that interview and Ben Easton’s stupid flirty banter with her wife.

“Yes, well, Ben is…fun to work with,” Quinn responds flatly, darting her eyes over to Rachel. She knows how Quinn really feels about her costar, but they’re onscreen lovers, so she has to pretend that she doesn’t think he’s a sleazy womanizer when she’s in public.

“He’s just so gorgeous. And charming,” the girl continues enthusiastically.  “You’re, like, the perfect couple. I was so happy when you finally, finally kissed on the show. It was so hot. It didn’t even seem like it was scripted at all. Do you guys just go for it?  ‘Cause it looks so natural.”

Quinn’s eyes narrow. “It’s completely scripted. And our director tells us what to do down to the position of our heads.”

“But it’s so believable. I thought you guys were really a couple for the longest time,” she admits with a certain lilt in her voice that makes Rachel think she still believes that, despite the fact that Quinn is very much married—and married to a woman at that!  

“That’s why they call it acting,” Quinn grits out with a fake smile.  

Rachel can almost see the bitchier retort forming on Quinn’s lips, and frankly, she’s not feeling overly inspired to stop her. But Stanley and shy blonde girl seem really sweet, and Rachel really doesn’t want to watch Quinn’s twitter mentions explode with negativity if she goes off on an overeager fan, so she gives the other two kids an apologetic smile and steps closer to her wife. “Quinn, baby, we really need to go now.” She gives the girl a sharp look—she’s sure her own mentions later will be enough to trend  _Rachel Berry is a diva_. Again.  She doesn’t care. “If you’ll excuse us.”

“Oh, yeah,” the girl mutters with a frown. “Anyway, it’s been such an honor to meet you, Quinn. Thank you so much for the picture. Give Ben a kiss for me.”

Rachel slips her arm around Quinn’s waist possessively and glares at the girl while Stanley and the blonde girl each tug on one of their friend’s arms to get her moving. “Thank you, again, Ms. Berry. Ms. Fabray,” Stanley calls after them as they drag the brunette away.

Rachel hears the blonde hiss at her friend, “I can’t believe you said that in front of Rachel.”  

“Whatever,” the brunette mutters audibly. “They won’t last. Fabston forever.”

“Shut up, Chrissy!” the blonde snaps, casting one final, adoring look back in their direction. “Faberry is the best ship. And they’re real!”

Rachel’s brows lift as she turns back to Quinn, who’s shaking her head in annoyance. “Faberry?” Rachel asks. “Is that what the kids are calling us?”

Quinn shrugs, a smirk forming on her lips. “At least it’s not Quinchel.”


	9. Live It Up You're Growing Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Drabble set in _In the Wilderness of Life_ universe.

She’s been fidgeting nervously on the chair for ten minutes now, and all Quinn can do is stare at her, feeling her stomach coil with every silent second that ticks by. It’s not unusual for Beth to stop for a visit, but she’s normally all smiles and chatter about whatever she’s doing in school or some humorous adventure that she’s had with her friends. The unusual quiet is really disconcerting for Quinn. 

She wishes that Rachel was here because her wife is an expert at filling uncomfortable silences, but she’d taken Luke to their biweekly Mommy and Me playgroup. Personally, Quinn thinks that their son is still too young to care if he has other babies to play with, but Rachel insists that socializing him will provide important interpersonal skills and teach Luke how to share from an early age. Quinn can kind of see her point.   

Beth takes a few deep breaths, pulling at the hem of her sweater, before she finally whispers, barely loud enough to be heard, “I…I had sex with Paul.”

That coil in Quinn’s stomach snaps, and it feels like everything inside of her just falls into the floor. She bites into her lip hard as her mind spins back to her own first time, and—

"Are you pregnant?" comes flying out of her mouth in a hard tone.  _Please God, don’t let her be pregnant. Don’t let her repeat my mistakes_ , Quinn prays desperately.  _She’s only seventeen._   

"No," Beth answers with wide eyes. "I…I mean…I’m pretty sure I’m not. It…it just happened last night."

"Did you use protection?" Quinn asks.

Beth blushes crimson and looks at the floor, twisting her fingers into her sweater. “Yes,” she mutters. “Um…he…we used a condom…and…um…Mom m-made me start taking birth control last year.”

Quinn slumps in her chair, exhaling in relief as she runs her hand through her hair. Thank God Shelby had more sense than Judy Fabray ever did. But then Quinn wonders why Beth is telling her this instead of Shelby, and she frowns. “Did…did he…pressure you?”

Beth’s lips tremble, but she shakes her head  _no_. “He…he’s been wanting to…and…I thought I was ready…so…so I said  _yes_ …but,” she trails off, shaking her head again, and Quinn feels her heart lurch. 

"You weren’t."

Beth shakes her head sadly. “It was really weird. And embarrassing. And it…it kind of hurt,” Beth admits woefully, tears on her cheeks, and Quinn slides off her chair and kneels in front of her firstborn child, tugging Beth into her arms.  

"Oh, honey. Are you okay?" she asks, stroking Beth’s hair. "Did…do you think you need to see a doctor…or...?"

"No," Beth denies quickly. "I just…I really wish I’d waited. And I…I don’t want to do it again."

"Then you don’t have to," Quinn assure her. 

"But he’ll break up with me."

Quinn clenches her jaw, silently plotting ways to murder that little snot, Paul, and where to hide the body. “If he really cares about you, he’ll understand and respect your decision.”

Beth laughs sadly. “Did Noah do that?”

Quinn catches her breath. “That…was completely different.”

"Is this how you felt?  After you were with him? Like you just wanted to go back and undo it."

Quinn doesn’t know how to answer that. “Oh, Beth. At the time, yeah,” she grudgingly admits, “I wished that I had waited. That I’d been older and that my first time had been with someone I really loved,” and definitely without the alcohol, she thinks, “but the one part of the whole experience that I never regretted was you.”  

It’s true. She’d regretted Puck, and how young they were, and how her life had fallen apart, and that they couldn’t keep Beth, but she could never regret bringing such an amazing person into the world.

Beth nods, wiping at her tears. “I’m really glad you had me,” she says. “But God, if sex with my father was that bad, then you really got screwed.”

Quinn chokes on a laugh, pulling her daughter back into her arms. “Trust me, Beth. It’s so much better when you’re with the right person.” She frowns. “But I think you should wait another five years or so to find that out.”

Beth only laughs into her shoulder, and Quinn sighs, wondering how the years have gone by so quickly. She hugs her daughter tighter and vows to hold onto every moment.


	10. Magical Mystery Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Ficlet written by request from an Anon on tumblr. I may or may not revisit this universe someday.

Quinn can’t believe that they’re still planning to get married. After what happened (to  _her_ ) at their last attempt, she was really hoping it would be a few more years before they’d revisit a wedding. Or never.  

She’s currently nursing a wine cooler in Brittany’s back yard in celebration of their Nationals win. The entire glee club is here, and Finn and Rachel are curled up on a lounge chair being all disgusting and coupley as they tell Tina all about their plans to tie the knot right after graduation—less than two weeks from now. Quinn huffs in disgust, frowning down at her bottle.

“Aw, no frownies,” Brittany chastises, plopping down next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “I can totally get you the exotic berry if you want.”

Quinn’s head comes up, eyes widening. “Excuse me?”

Brittany points to the bottle in her hand. “The berry is much better than super gross fuzzy navel. I mean, who wants fuzz in their navel?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.  

“Oh,” Quinn breathes.  “No…it’s fine.

Brittany nods slowly, her eyes darting over to Rachel and Finn. “But I guess looking at that is super gross too.”

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees. “Sometimes I wish…”

“What?” Brittany asks.

Quinn shrugs. “Just…have you ever wished you could go back and do things differently?”

“Oh, that,” Brittany dismisses with a wave of her hand. “I’m totally doing that. I’m repeating my whole senior year.”

Quinn shakes her head. “No. I meant go back in time, knowing what you know now. Like before glee club started, when I could still get anything I wanted just by snapping my fingers,” she mutters with her gaze fastened on Rachel and Finn.

“I could do that too if I want,” Brittany claims. “I have a time machine.”

Quinn stares at her for a few seconds. “That’s…nice.” Sometimes it’s easier to just go along with whatever Brittany says.  

“No. I totally do.  I’ll show you,” she insists, grabbing Quinn’s hand as she stands.  Quinn doesn’t resist—anything is better than watching Rachel coo over Finn Hudson.

Brittany drags her upstairs and into her bedroom, letting her go to dig around in her dresser until she turns around with a portable CD player and headphones and holds them aloft. “Here. See?”

Quinn gapes at her. “Um…Brittany. That’s a walkman.”

"It only looks like one on the outside. But trust me, it will totally take you back in time.”

Quinn chuckles.  “Yeah, it probably would,” she concedes, thinking that it’s a relic from the nineteen-nineties and the sheer nostalgia will throw her back to her toddler years.  “Where did you even get one of those? I didn’t think anyone made them anymore.”

“It was my mom’s,” she admits. “But I totally tricked it out like the DeLorean,” she brags, tilting it sideways so Quinn can see the weird little crystals that Brittany has glued to to top.

“Did you steal Rachel’s Bedazzler?” she asks with a laugh.

“Don’t be mean,” Brittany pouts.  

Quinn stifles her laughter. “Sorry,” she manages with a smile.

“I’ll totally let you try it if you want. Lord Tubbington uses it all the time to go back to his kittenhood and hide cigarettes for his future self.”

“Oooo-kay,” Quinn drawls before biting into her lip to keep from laughing again.  

Brittany grins, bouncing in excitement and presses the CD player into Quinn’s hands.  Quinn sits down on the edge of Brittany’s bed, looking down at the walkman in amusement as Brittany begins to rummage through a messy pile of CDs on her shelf. Quinn doesn’t believe for a minute that it’s actually a time machine, but she’s willing to play along if it means she doesn’t have to go back downstairs right away.

“Ah ha,” Brittany crows in triumph, skipping over to Quinn with a Journey CD in her hands.  

Quinn’s brows furrow. “Brittany, did you get that from Mr. Schue?”

Brittany shrugs. “He had lots of extra copies. He really has some weird obsession with them.”

Quinn sighs, suddenly less enamored with humoring Brittany.  “I’m really not in the mood to listen to Journey,” she grumbles, trying to hand the CD player back to Brittany.

Brittany closes her hands over Quinn’s, shaking her head seriously. “The song is how you pick the destination,” she explains. “Like, Lord Tubbington uses  _What’s New, Pussycat_? when he goes back. You need to use  _Don’t Stop Believing_. It will totally take you back to when glee club started. Like you want.”

Quinn rolls her eyes, taking the CD and slipping it into the walkman. “Fine. But I’m not singing along,” she mutters, dropping the headphones over her ears.

Brittany puts a hand over the walkman before Quinn can press play, looking her directly in the eyes and very seriously telling her, “You’re going to wake up in your younger self. When you want to come back, you need to listen to the song again. It’s totes important that you do it with headphones, ‘kay?”

Quinn chuckles. “Sure, Brittany,” she agrees.

When Brittany smiles and removes her hand, Quinn presses the shuffle button because she doesn’t really care what song she listens to. The one that fills her ears happens to be  _Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’_ , and she shakes her head as the music reverberates through in her ears. She glances down at the walkman, looking for the volume button to turn it down, but a sudden wave of dizziness overtakes her, and she clutches at the mattress, trying to look up at Brittany through blurry eyes. “Britt,” she chokes out before she can’t breath at all and the world fades away.

_xx_

When Quinn wakes up, it’s to the sound of  _Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’_  playing softly in the distance, and she automatically reaches for her head to drag off the headphones, only to find that they’re no longer there and the song is still playing. A headache is pounding behind her eyes, and she slowly pries them open to see a hazy, white ceiling looming over her. It takes a moment for the softness of the mattress beneath her and the sheets wrapped around her body to register.

_Her naked body._

“What the hell?” she mutters groggily, jerking up as she clutches the sheet to her chest. Another wave of dizziness overwhelms her, and she falls back onto the bed.  “Brittany,” she calls out. “Jesus fuck, what did you do to me?” she wonders in a panic. She’d only had the one wine cooler—not even a whole bottle. Oh, God, did somebody slip her a roofie?  Her heart races as she prays to whatever God is actually up there that no one let Puckerman near her this time.

She hears the doorknob rattle, and she turns her head to look at the door as it swings open, but the door isn’t where she thinks it should be in Brittany’s bedroom, and before she can get her bearings, the mattress dips and bounces and something slams into her. Something small and warm and giggling.  

“Morning, mommy.”

Quinn’s eyes open wide and panicked as they focus on a little girl with messy brown curls and golden-brown eyes grinning widely at her. “B-beth?” she whispers hoarsely, thinking that she must be dreaming. She must have passed out in Brittany’s bedroom and whacked her head on the floor, and now she’s in some kind of coma, having an out of body experience.  

The little girl’s smile slips, and she frowns, putting two little hands on her hips as she kneels over Quinn. “No, Mommy. Not Beth. Ava. You know that,” she scolds. There’s something very familiar about the girl that Quinn can’t quite place.

“This is such a weird dream,” Quinn mumbles, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to sink back into the mattress.

“Are you sick?” Ava asks worriedly, pressing a hand to Quinn’s forehead. Quinn flinches at how real it feels.

“I’m going to wake up any minute,” Quinn reassures herself.

Ava scrambles around on the bed until the mattress bounces again, and Quinn hears her feet thunk on the floor and begin to run away as she yells, “Mama!  Mama!”  

Quinn chuckles to herself, pressing her own hand to her forehead. Even in her dreams, she can’t keep her kid with her. She takes a few deep breaths and wonders if she has to fall asleep in her dream before she can wake up in reality. As she’s lying there, she hears footsteps again, heavier this time, before Ava’s voice says, “See, Mama. I told you. She’s sick.”

The mattress dips again, this time on the other side, and a gentle hand carefully pries Quinn’s palm from her head. “Quinn, baby, are you okay?”

Quinn’s fly open again on a strangled gasp as she looks up into soft brown eyes, glistening with worry.  “R-Rachel? Why are you in my dream?”

“Okay, you’re really starting to worry me, baby?” Rachel murmurs, stroking the back of her fingers over Quinn’s cheek. “I know we had a late night celebrating, but you seem really out of it this morning.  Are you feeling okay?”

Quinn shakes her head slowly as she stares up at Rachel. “I don’t think so,” she whispers, finally pushing herself up off the mattress and into a sitting position. Rachel frowns, reaching out to steady her, and Quinn notices a flash of something from the corner of her eye.  

When she gazes down at Rachel’s very solid hands on her shoulders, she sees a diamond ring and matching wedding band on Rachel’s left hand. Quinn bites into her cheek as she lifts her own hand and grabs Rachel’s to examine the rings more closely, because that really doesn’t look like the engagement ring that Rachel has been sporting for the last six months. And that wedding ring right next to it?  It matches the one on Quinn’s finger exactly.  

“Holy shit,” she gasps, looking at her own hand in horror.

Rachel’s frown deepens as Ava giggles. “Mommy said a bad word.”

Quinn’s head turns to stare at the little girl again. The little girl who’s calling her Mommy. The little girl that looks just like Rachel. Beyond Ava’s gorgeous, little face is a photograph on the nightstand of Quinn and Rachel, wearing white and wrapped in a loving embrace.

“Quinn, what’s going on?” Rachel asks in concern.

“I…I have no idea,” Quinn admits. “But I really need to talk to Brittany.”

She’s still not completely certain if she’s having a really realistic dream, or if Brittany’s magical, time-travelling CD player actually works, but one thing is certain—this isn’t sophomore year of high school. This is the future, and future her is married to Rachel Berry. And for some strange reason, she doesn’t want to wake up or go home. And she’s terrified of what that means.


	11. Not A Care In the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Drabble set in the _Worlds Away_ universe.

Quinn Fabray is  _not_  in his kitchen!

She’s also not in her clothes! Kurt doesn’t quite react fast enough to avoid seeing every inch of Quinn when he breezes into Rachel’s bedroom, thinking he’ll find his roommate frantically tearing through her makeshift closet in search of the perfect outfit for her date tonight with Quinn.  

Who is naked.

In Rachel’s bed.  

Asleep.  

“Oh, my God!” he squeaks, slapping a hand over his eyes and spinning around as he attempts to blindly stumble out of the room without getting tangled up in the curtain. “Oh, my God!” he repeats, trying to ignore the shadowy image of pale skin and lady bits that’s currently burned into the back of his eyelids.    

When he unexpectedly slams into a body, he screams, thinking that Quinn has somehow caught him and is about to tackle him (naked) to the floor and beat him to death for creeping on her while she was sleeping, but a hand is immediately pressed over his mouth as Rachel hisses, “Be quiet.”

Kurt drops his hand from his eyes and stares at Rachel.  “Quih aykeh ehu beh,” he mumbles into her palm, causing her eyebrows to furrow before she slowly removes her hand.

“What?”  

“Quinn is naked in your bed,” he tells her needlessly.  

Her eyes widen, and her face turns a deep crimson.  “I can explain,” she says in a rush, trying to drag him away from her bedroom.

“The nudity is fairly self-explanatory,” he muses, finally beginning to recover from his shock. He hadn’t thought that they’d progressed that far in their relationship yet, but good for them if they had.

Rachel shakes her head. “No. It’s…  She was dirty.”

Kurt slaps his hands over his ears this time. “I don’t want the details.”

Rachel glares at him as she grabs his wrists and drags his arms down. “She was splashed by a truck on the street, and her dress got covered in sludge. It’s currently in the laundry downstairs.”

Kurt raises his eyebrows. It seems like a plausible explanation, except, “What happened to her underwear?”

Rachel blushes again. “She wanted to take a shower. I…I offered to wash her undergarments as well.”

“Oookay,” Kurt drawls. “But I’m still having trouble with the naked in your bed part. Because she is,” he reminds her with a grin.

“She…um…she must have fallen asleep when I was downstairs,” Rachel speculates, her eyes darting all around the room.

Kurt’s grin grows into a smirk. “Rachel, sweetie?”

“What?”

“You do realize that you’re currently only wearing a silk robe that really doesn’t cover much of anything?” he points out, fully taking in her appearance—complete with mussed hair.

Rachel huffs, pulling her robe tighter around her body and scowling darkly at him. “You…we…I…damn it, Kurt!  You weren’t supposed to be home for another hour,” she growls, turning on her heel and stalking into her bedroom before closing her curtain with a dramatic flourish.  

Kurt laughs, and then he decides to go back out and forage for dinner elsewhere, because he really doesn’t want to be in the apartment with Quinn and Rachel naked in the bedroom.


	12. All I Ever Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We need your tremulous alto and your Belinda Carlisle glamour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Ficlet written for Faberry Week, Day 6 - Vacation. Because I couldn't get the song out of my head every time I looked at the prompt. 
> 
> Unbetaed so all mistakes are my own.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

_We need your tremulous alto and your Belinda Carlisle glamour._ ¹

Quinn shakes her head as she recalls Rachel's words, wondering why they insist on ringing in her memory so clearly nearly a year after they were first uttered. But then, 98% of everything Rachel says seems to stay with her for some unknown reason. She supposes that remembering Rachel's favorite Wiggle and what song she sang in her very first singing competition is the price that she has to pay to know that she's the prettiest girl that Rachel has ever met but so much more than that.

And God help her, it has to be some toxic combination of  _that_  and the heat and wine coolers and Finn Hudson dumping Rachel at a train station two months ago and a summer spent being kind of friends that has Quinn standing next to the karaoke machine at Santana's pool party (because  _of course_ she owns one despite making fun of Rachel for hers) in a red, one-piece swimsuit and a sarong wrapped around her waist—the bikini is a no-go for the foreseeable future thanks to the still noticeable scars from her accident—queuing up a song worthy of that tremulous alto and Belinda Carlisle glamour.

But she'll be leaving for Yale next week, and Rachel will be heading back to New York a few days later, and who knows if either of them will ever be brave enough to use those Metro North passes, so what the hell? It's not like Rachel will ever look at her without her Finn-colored glasses long enough to actually notice what's really going on with her, and half of their friends are already too drunk to remember this tomorrow anyway.

The synthesizers kick in with the simple but catchy beat, and Quinn grabs the microphone. Her eyes seek out Rachel despite her best efforts to look anywhere else, and she's not surprised to see her grinning happily from her deck chair, her foot already tapping in time to the song. Quinn tries and fails to keep her gaze from drifting down to that ridiculous(ly sexy) polka dot bikini as she opens her mouth to sing.

" _Can't seem t_ _o get my mind off of you._  
_Back here at home there's nothing to do._  
_Now that I'm away,_  
_I wish I'd stayed._  
_Tomorrow's a day of mine  
__that you won't be in."_

Quinn wonders if she's going sharp (or maybe flat) because Rachel's grin slips noticeably. She's probably mentally preparing her critique of Quinn's performance even though Quinn will likely never sing in front of an audience again once she dives into her college experience. There's no way that Rachel could actually be getting a clue at this late date over a Go-Go's song—not when she'd sat through Quinn's multiple speeches and silent begging to not marry Finn without even batting an eyelash.

" _When you looked at me,  
__I should've run."_

She really should have. Sometimes she feels like Rachel Berry has been the catalyst for every terrible decision that she's ever made, including this one.

" _But I thought it was just for fun."_

It stopped being fun for Quinn about the time that Rachel first set her sights on Finn.

" _I see I was wrong,_  
_and I'm not so strong._  
_I should've known all along  
__that time would tell."_

She should have known that Rachel would end up causing her to fall farther and faster than she ever imagined possible.

" _A week without you._  
_Thought I'd forget._  
_Two weeks without you,  
__and I still haven't gotten over you yet."_

Quinn's gaze is still locked on Rachel, and Rachel isn't smiling at all anymore. She's just kind of looking intensely at Quinn with a furrowed brow, and—shit! Maybe those Finn-colored glasses did finally slip off. Maybe she's finally seeing that, after an engagement and  _Finn and only Finn_  and a car accident on the way to Rachel's rushed, teen wedding, Quinn still hasn't gotten over it. This.  _Her_.

" _Vacation._  
_All I ever wanted._  
_Vacation._  
_Had to get away._  
_Vacation.  
__Meant to be spent alone."_

Quinn refuses to look at Rachel for the rest of the song, which is just a rinse and repeat of the same lyrics, and when she's finished, everyone claps and cheers—everyone except Rachel. And okay, so maybe Quinn does sneak in one more look.

She sets down the microphone and makes a tactical retreat while Mercedes stands up to choose her own song to keep the party going. Quinn passes the cooler and snags another drink as she pads away from the pool and through the sliding glass door that leads into the Lopez's game room. She presses the bottle to her forehead in an attempt to cool off while she paces around the room with a hand on her hip and mutters, "Stupid idiot. You just had to go and sing."

"It was a very good performance."

Quinn jumps, grunting out an undignified, "Fuck," at the unexpected sound of Rachel's voice, and she nearly drops the bottle onto the floor. She spins around to find Rachel standing in front of the glass door with an uncertain smile touching her lips. Quinn absolutely  _is not_  leering at her breasts in that bikini. She's not!

Rachel licks her lips, dragging Quinn's gaze to them before she speaks again. "And the song was rather apropos, as our summer vacation is rapidly coming to a close."

"Yeah," Quinn manages, clutching the bottle tightly in front of her as if it's some magical weapon to ward off Rachel's inquisitive gaze. "Yeah, that's exactly why I picked it." It's only half a lie.

"I thought as much," Rachel claims with a nod, licking her lips again. She really needs to stop that—Quinn really needs to stop staring at them too, but that's how she sees the corners curl into a playful, little grin. "Plus, it was a perfect complement to your Belinda Carlisle glamour."

Apparently  _Rachel_  remembers at least 98% of everything she's ever said, too. "We should probably get back to the party," Quinn suggests, pointing at the door with the neck of her bottle as she takes a step forward, mentally calculating the proper trajectory to sidestep Rachel on her way back outside.

Rachel determinedly steps into her path to stop her, catching her gaze and holding it. "Quinn, I know that I have an unfortunate habit of occasionally missing pertinent social cues, but when you were singing that song, you were singing it to me, and only me," she says in a way that's far too reminiscent of Quinn's own desperate question before the wedding that wasn't.

"It was just a song, Rachel," Quinn insists, averting her eyes to the shenanigans of their friends still having fun outside. "A silly, frivolous song. I only needed something to focus on so I wouldn't get distracted and forget the words," she lies.

"Oh?" Rachel breathes, casually leaning back against the door and making it impossible for Quinn to get past her or to look at anything else. "Because for a moment, I thought that perhaps you'd chosen a somewhat unconventional method of confessing your long hidden feelings. For me," she clarifies unnecessarily.

Quinn decides to pick at the label on the bottle with a fingernail to avoid looking at Rachel. "That really would be stupid, wouldn't it?" she scoffs. "You're still waiting for Finn to change his mind and want you back. Again."

Rachel sighs and shakes her head. "No, I'm not." Quinn abandons counting the rivulets of condensation on the bottle to look at Rachel with unpreventable interest. "It's true that I...still haven't gotten over him yet," she admits with an ironic grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "But I'm getting there."

Quinn nods automatically, processing the words. "That's…good," she reasons cautiously. "For you. Good for you," she repeats inanely.

Rachel's smile widens. "I hear that New Haven is lovely in the fall, and I have those train tickets that you bought for us," she reminds Quinn, almost shyly. "I'm certain that it won't be very long at all before I'll need a vacation from the stresses of attending NYADA." She runs her tongue across her lower lip again—Quinn is beginning to suspect that she's doing that on purpose. "One that I'd…rather not spend alone."

Quinn swallows around a suddenly dry throat and briefly contemplates downing the wine cooler that she's been carrying around in a single gulp. She decides it might not be wise under theses newly confusing circumstances. "Well, that's…that's why I bought the tickets. To visit." Certainly not to seduce Rachel Berry away from Finn Hudson.

Well—not  _entirely_  for that reason.

"I'm very glad you did," Rachel tells her sweetly, and then she completely surprises Quinn by swaying forward and lightly grasping Quinn's shoulders for balance before she rises onto her toes and presses a chaste kiss to her cheek—suspiciously close to the corner of her mouth. "Thank you, Quinn," she murmurs before letting go.

"Yeah," is all that Quinn can think to say as she stares open-mouthed at Rachel, barely resisting the urge to touch the spot on her cheek where Rachel's lips had just been.

"I'll see you back outside," Rachel says with a tip of her head.

Her grin might be just a tiny bit smug as she turns and slides open the door.

Quinn's grin might be just a tiny bit besotted as she watches Rachel walk away. She's absolutely  _not_  leering at her ass in that bikini. She's not!

Okay—she totally is, and she doesn't care who knows it.

"Thank you, Belinda," she whispers as her eyes follow Rachel.

Today just got a lot more interesting and so have all of her tomorrows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _¹ Glee 3:01, "The Purple Piano Project"_   
>  _"Vacation," by The Go-Go's_


	13. Perpetual Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel Berry felt as though she'd been waiting for the summer to arrive forever. The end of her junior year of high school had been both indescribably better and disappointingly worse than the end of previous years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Ficlet written for Faberry Week, Day 7 - The Future. Set in the _This Kiss_ universe because it was my first Faberry fic and this is the last FW prompt.
> 
> Unbetaed so all mistakes are my own.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

Rachel Berry felt as though she'd been waiting for the summer to arrive forever. The end of her junior year of high school had been both indescribably better and disappointingly worse than the end of previous years. Last year at this time, she'd been celebrating the birth of her fledgling relationship with Finn Hudson and the glee club's last minute amnesty, living to sing another day. This year, Rachel was reveling in her increasingly intimate relationship with Quinn Fabray and the anticipation of three blissful months in which they would be able to be together without classes or competitions or Sue Sylvester's sadistic practice schedule to interrupt their quality alone time.

Sadly, Rachel was also still mourning the glee club's disastrous loss at Nationals thanks to her aforementioned  _ex_ -boyfriend and his unfortunate misinterpretation of her perfectly platonic offer to run through their choreography with him one more time as an indication that she'd wanted him back again and, therefore, a perfectly acceptable reason to attempt to kiss her on stage after their duet—the one that Mr. Schuester had insisted that they perform together despite Rachel's suggestion that Santana or Mercedes might be a more vocally impressive partner for her in front of the judges. Unsurprisingly, witnessing the male lead attempt to accost the female lead on stage and her push him away in a very ungraceful manner had  _not_ impressed the judges at all.

It had taken half the club to hold back Santana as she'd lunged at Finn and cursed him out in Spanish for costing them their chance at winning. It had taken the other half of the club to hold back  _Quinn_  from scratching out his eyes for trying to kiss her girlfriend. Luckily, Finn's misguided actions hadn't damaged Rachel's relationship with Quinn, but instead of returning to McKinley triumphant with a trophy held proudly over their heads, they'd been anointed with the icy tendrils of cherry and blueberry dripping over their faces.

The slushies had become a too-common occurrence over the final weeks of school, thanks to Quinn's impromptu decision to come out with a very public kiss in the hallway. Her cheerio uniform hadn't done very much to protect her from the bigots and bullies that seemed to populate the McKinley hierarchy, though Rachel had noticed that Quinn was targeted more frequently when she and Rachel were alone together than when she was walking the halls with Santana and Brittany or the other cheerios. She knew that her girlfriend hated the slushies, but she hated not being able to protect Rachel from them even more. Rachel was sadly used to needing to keep a change of clothes (or two) on hand to get through the day, but even so, she hoped that a summer away from the pack mentality of high school would help those close-minded Neanderthals on the hockey team forget all about them come September.

Through it all, Quinn remained steadfast in her insistence that the slushies and the derogatory epithets that were occasionally shouted out at them in the hallways were a small price to pay for being free to hold Rachel's hand or kiss her at their lockers between classes or just proclaim that she loved her girlfriend whenever she wanted without caring who might overhear. Rachel couldn't really disagree that the benefits of being with Quinn far outweighed the one unfortunate negative.

Today, they were free of hallways and lockers and slushies until the fall, and Rachel was currently on her way to the Fabray residence to spend her first official day of summer vacation with her gorgeous girlfriend. Quinn had already texted her twice to make sure that she was still coming over—as if she would want to be anywhere else. She made good time on her short drive, and in no time at all, she had pulled into the Fabray driveway and parked her car. She eagerly made her way to the front door, but before she could even raise her hand to knock, it opened to reveal a beaming Quinn, comfortably dressed in cut-off shorts and a tight, blue t-shirt.

"Good morning, Quinn," Rachel greeted cheerfully.

Quinn immediately reached out to snag Rachel's hand, pulling her inside and closing the door behind her. "Hi, baby," she breathed, leaning down to press an all-too-brief kiss to Rachel's lips. A hum of pleasure rumbled in her throat when they parted. "I missed you."

Rachel grinned as she slipped her arms around Quinn's waist. "It's barely been twelve hours since you last saw me."

"Twelve hours too many," Quinn pouted before she recaptured Rachel's mouth in a kiss that seemed intended to make up for every second of those twelve hours spent apart. Rachel's hold on Quinn tightened as she parted her lips and gave into Quinn's skillful seduction. She was so in love with her girlfriend.

She felt Quinn's hands begin to stray, dipping to press against the curve to her backside. Rachel couldn't say that she really minded. In fact, her body wholeheartedly approved. "Are you planning to debauch me in your foyer?" she asked breathlessly between kisses.

A husky laugh sounded as Quinn cupped her butt and pulled her closer. "No. I'm planning to do it in my bedroom."

Quinn's mouth began to descend again, but Rachel pulled back with furrowed brows. "Your mother…?"

"Is at work," Quinn finished with a wicked smirk.

A soft, "Oh," of realization slipped out as Rachel's gaze helplessly dipped to Quinn's smiling lips, and she imagined all the lovely things that they could do to her in this big, empty house.

"Yeah," Quinn agreed, brushing those soft lips over Rachel's again. "I really love the summer," she murmured appreciatively.

Intimacy with Quinn was a temptation that Rachel wasn't inclined to resist, but, "We did promise our parents that we would refrain from being alone in any bedrooms with no one home to supervise us." Judy Fabray had been very understanding about their relationship thus far, but she hadn't quite progressed to the point of being on board with them having sex under her roof.

Quinn arched an eyebrow as she gazed at Rachel incredulously. "You want to start following the rules  _now_? After all the times and all the creative ways you've bent them?"

"Not particularly," Rachel admitted with an easy smile, "but I thought that I should mention it. It seemed like the responsible thing to do."

Quinn laughed, releasing her hold on Rachel with a playful slap to her ass before catching her hand and linking their fingers. "You know, I didn't  _only_  ask you to come over so I could have my way with you," she conceded as she led Rachel into the living room. "It's such a nice day, I thought we could maybe go for a swim."

Rachel's smile turned into a tiny frown. Quinn hadn't mentioned the possibility of utilizing the pool when she'd issued the invitation. "I didn't bring a swimsuit."

"Skinny dipping works for me," Quinn purred seductively, her eyes traveling over Rachel's body like a lover's caress. The temperature in the room seemed to rise, making the idea of jumping naked into a pool of cool water seem even more appealing. "But I have a bikini you could borrow if you want," Quinn added with a grin. "We're about the same size."

Rachel bit back a laugh. "Forgive me if I don't entirely trust your opinion in that regard." While it was true that several of their wardrobe items had turned out to be practically interchangeable, there were enough significant differences in certain areas of their bodies to make regularly swapping clothes unwise. Rachel had no choice but to question Quinn's true motives in neglecting to mention the need for a swimsuit today.

"Are you calling me fat, Berry?" Quinn growled playfully, crossing her arms.

"Certainly not," Rachel vowed. Despite her girlfriend's lighthearted demeanor, Rachel understood that Quinn's body image could still be a delicate subject on occasion, so she placed a soothing hand on Quinn's arm. "But…well…Quinn, sweetheart, we don't exactly wear the same bra size," she pointed out tactfully. "I distinctly recall that when I borrowed your dress last month, my cleavage was practically spilling out of it."

"And this is a problem because…?" Quinn drawled in amusement.

"Quinn," Rachel chastised with a giggle, lightly slapping her arm. "I think I've turned you into a sex fiend." And, really, Quinn had done the same to Rachel, so she wasn't exactly complaining that her very hot girlfriend appreciated her body and enjoyed seeing it both in and out of her clothes.

Quinn sighed as she uncrossed her arms and reached up to brush Rachel's hair away from her face before caressing her cheek. "I think I'm just happy," she mused.

Rachel's heart soared at the simple admission. "So am I," she agreed, curling her palm around the back of Quinn's neck and pulling her into a loving kiss that was meant to convey just how happy she truly was.

Quinn's smile was almost shy when their lips parted. "So…do you want to go swimming?" she asked softly. "Or we could go see a movie if you prefer. Or for a walk. Or," she smirked again, "I could just debauch you."

Rachel laughed. "Swimming is good. For now," she decided, still enamored with the many intimate possibilities that they might explore while alone together for the entire day. "You can debauch me later. Or during," she amended with a wicked grin of her own.

"Let's get you into that bikini, then," Quinn urged as she entwined her fingers with Rachel's again, tugging her into motion, and then they were laughingly racing up the stairs to Quinn's bedroom.

The room was still as sparsely decorated as it had been the very first time that Rachel had seen it, but over the last several months, more and more photographs of Rachel and other various mementos of their dates had been appearing on Quinn's mirror and dresser and desk. Rachel grinned at the growing visual evidence of their relationship every time she came in here, and today was no different.

Quinn had gone straight to her dresser, pulling open a drawer to sift through the neatly folded clothes in search of her swimsuits, and Rachel sank down into Quinn's desk chair, content to watch the sway of her girlfriend's very enticing backside—except that her gaze caught on a splash of color on the surface of Quinn's desk, and she glanced down to see the Yale insignia staring back at her. She frowned, picking up the brochure only to find another beneath. And another. And another.

"Here," Quinn offered, suddenly standing beside Rachel with two scraps of yellow material in her hands and a grin on her face. "I think this one will fit you, cleavage and all."

"Quinn," Rachel rasped, holding up a brochure with a frown. "What are these?"

"Just some college booklets," Quinn answered with a shrug.

Rachel's frown deepened, and she jerkily waved the brochure that she was holding in front of Quinn's face. "Yale?"

"It's a good school," Quinn defended, her smile slipping as she tossed the bikini down onto the corner of the desk.

"In Connecticut."

Confusion colored Quinn's expression. "Yeah," she confirmed warily.

"That's not New York!" Rachel cried as she slammed the brochure back onto the desk. Her heart felt as though it had gotten lodged in the base of her throat. Why was Quinn looking at colleges  _not_  in New York?

"It's, like, a two hour train ride," Quinn reasoned.

"Dartmouth isn't," Rachel practically screeched, holding up another brochure.

Quinn sighed. "Rachel…"

"And neither is Duke," Rachel barked, shuffling through the brochures. "And," her stomach clenched, "Stanford is in California, Quinn!"

"I haven't applied to any of them yet," Quinn assured her.

"Yet?" Rachel echoed, hurt.

"I've just been looking at options," Quinn explained as she reached around Rachel to pull a handful of brochures to the top of the pile, laying them out across her desk. "See…Columbia. Fordham. NYU. They're all in New York City," she soothed before she pointed to a scarlet colored brochure. "And Rutgers is only twenty minutes away."

Rachel stared at the colorful brochures spread out before her, realizing for the first time that she and Quinn had never really talked about what would happen after high school. Of course they'd both mentioned their intentions to attend college in the vaguest possible sense, but Rachel had never bothered to ask Quinn where she wanted to go. She'd just naturally assumed that Quinn would know exactly where Rachel would be going and adjust her plans accordingly.

"I…I'm planning on Tisch if I don't get into Juilliard," she finally voiced. She knew admission to Juilliard was incredibly competitive, and she had a list of backup schools in Manhattan ranked by both their music and theater programs, of which Tisch at NYU was at the top. She gazed up at Quinn, briefly catching her lip between her teeth before she stated the obvious. "Either way, I'll be in New York City, Quinn."

A tiny smile pulled at the corner of Quinn's mouth. "I know that."

Rachel continued to worry her lip—she  _had_  already informed all of her friends, teachers, classmates, bus drivers, and lunch ladies in the cafeteria of her destiny to perform on Broadway, so of course, Quinn would know. "I thought you'd be coming with me," she confessed. "Not…not going to Yale. Or Stanford?" Rachel could probably accept Quinn being a few hours away from her in New Haven for four precious years of their lives if she absolutely had to, but California was all the way across the county! And there were California  _girls_  in California! At least two songs to her immediate knowledge proclaimed them to be more desirable than any other girl. Damn Katy Perry and David Lee Roth!

Quinn swiveled Rachel's chair around to face her more fully, smiling reassuringly as she knelt down in front of her. She pried Rachel's hands away from the brochures and held them lightly between her own as she looked into Rachel's eyes. "I don't know where I'm going to college yet. My mom and I just sat down one night and signed up for all these mailing lists for the schools that I thought I might be interested in. I haven't made any decisions. I'm just," she paused, shrugging, "starting to think about the future, you know?"

Rachel swallowed and nodded. "Does that future include me?" Because whenever she imagined her own future now, Quinn was always front and center.

"Do you really have to ask?" Quinn responded. "Most of those schools are on the east coast, within driving distance of New York."

"But Stanford," Rachel reminded her.

Quinn's eyebrow inched up, and she let go of Rachel's hands and reached around her to the desk to unerringly find the Stanford brochure. She held it up in her hand, making sure that Rachel had a clear view of it when she ripped it in half with one, swift motion. "There," she exclaimed, tossing the torn halves into the waste basket under the desk. "No more Stanford."

Rachel's eyes widened at the cavalier dismissal of what she understood to be a really good college, and suddenly, she felt terrible. "Quinn. If…if you really want to go there, I…I don't want to hold you back."

Quinn chuckled, placing her warm palms on Rachel's thighs. "I think that's supposed to be my line," she quipped with a grin. "But I'm kind of leaning toward Yale or Columbia anyway."

She seemed sincere enough, so Rachel offered a tentative smile. "Columbia is right in Manhattan."

Quinn rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Yeah, I know." She tilted her head to the side, eyeing Rachel thoughtfully as she quickly ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them. "Look, Rach, we've still got a year to figure all of this stuff out. No matter where we end up for college, the one thing that I know for certain right now is that I want you to be a part of my future as much as I want to be a part of  _yours_."

"I want that too," Rachel breathed, cupping Quinn's cheek and leaning forward to brush a tender kiss over her lips.

"Then we'll make it happen," Quinn promised with a determined glint in her hazel eyes. "After all, we're both incredibly good at getting what we want." She lifted a hand up to the desk to reclaim the abandoned swimsuit and present it to Rachel. "Like me getting you into this bikini so I can get you out of it later."

Rachel laughed, shaking her head at Quinn's persistence. She pulled the bikini from Quinn's hand and examined it for the first time. "Really, Quinn?" she challenged skeptically, holding it up. "This bikini will fit me? It's practically dental floss."

Quinn flashed a devilish smile. "Mine's smaller."

Rachel's mouth went dry as she envisioned Quinn's perfect body clothed in practically nothing. "Why do I have the feeling that we're going to end up skinny dipping after all?"

"Well, you are a little bit psychic," Quinn teased, still smiling as she leaned in to capture Rachel's mouth and offer a taste of what she had planned for later.

Rachel silently acknowledged that Quinn was absolutely right—she  _was_ a little bit psychic because she could very clearly see exactly how today was going to play out. And Rachel's future had never looked better.


	14. Clear the Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Ficlet written by request. Canon compliant through most of _Glee_ season 6. Ignores Jesse St. James and the five year time jump.

 

"I would like to propose a toast to our dear Ms. Berry's triumphant return to the Broadway stage," Kurt announces, raising his Manhattan into the air over their tiny, crowded table in the corner of Call Backs.

"Off-Broadway," Rachel automatically corrects, but she can't keep the smile from her lips as she lifts her own glass. She feels good—better than she has in a very long time—with the rush of a perfect performance still buzzing in her veins, making her blood sing with excitement.

"Don't fuck it up this time," Santana adds, clinking her tequila against the rim of Rachel's wine glass.

Rachel's smile slips slightly at the blunt reminder of her first unfortunate foray into show-business, but then Brittany elbows her wife's side in silent chastisement and tells Rachel to, "Fuck your hot costar instead," immediately lightening the mood and drawing laughter from everyone. Well— _almost_ everyone. Quinn's lips are curved into a frown, and Rachel's not sure if she's annoyed by Santana's initial comment, unamused by Brittany's crude suggestion, or slightly disgusted because Rachel current costar happens to be a woman. Or maybe she's just not in the mood for jokes of a sexual nature after having ended her relationship with Noah once and for all.

"I think we've all learned from our youthful indiscretions," Blaine says, pulling Rachel's attention away from Quinn. He offers her a reassuring smile before he directs a more grateful one to Kurt and leans into him slightly. They've been married for nine months now, sharing the same anniversary with Brittany and Santana, and Blaine had certainly made his fair share of mistakes on both the personal and professional fronts before he'd finally gotten back on track, so Rachel does actually take some comfort from the knowledge that she isn't the only idiot who'd fucked up a good thing.

"Here's to us all moving onto bigger and better things," Rachel agrees with crooked smile.

Santana snickers. "Or smaller, hobbity things." The table rattles slightly and Santana barks, "Ouch. Damn it, Q!"

"Sorry. My foot must have slipped," Quinn explains with mock sweetness.

Santana's eyes narrow and her lips twist into a smirk. "Oh, you mean like that one time when your fingers slipped into my..." The table rattles again, and Santana's sentence ends abruptly on a disgruntled, "Ow," before she turns to her wife with a frown. "Britt?"

Brittany shrugs innocently. "Sorry, guess I slipped, too."

Laughing, Quinn picks up her drink and makes a point to catch Rachel's eyes before she echoes her toast with a husky, "Here's to us."

An odd little flutter happens in the pit of Rachel's stomach as she gazes into Quinn's eyes. She knows that Quinn is toasting their entire group of friends, but it feels more intimate somehow. Rachel smiles crookedly and lifts her own glass again, shaking herself out of her fanciful thoughts. They've been invading her mind more and more lately, ever since she and Quinn had started spending time together again—which just happens to have coincided with Rachel's return to New York. In fact, just last night, they'd fallen asleep together, sprawled across Rachel's bed, after talking into the early morning hours. And things like _that_ are definitely a major contribution to those fanciful thoughts.

Rachel needs to get them out of her head, because she's certain that Quinn doesn't think of her that way. Well— _nearly_ certain. Occasionally, she gets the sense that maybe—but, _no_. Quinn had seemed very happy with Noah, until she wasn't, that is. Of course, they'd spent more time apart than together, which Quinn has since admitted was part of the appeal, but nevertheless, she doesn't seem to be looking for another relationship at the moment and certainly not with Rachel. Well— _probably_ not.

Really, it's a shame that Rachel had come around to the possibility of—how had Kitty phrased it last year?— _going lesbian with a cheerleader_ too late to act on it with Quinn. She still has the urge to slap Santana for being in the right place at the right time to reap the benefits of Quinn's very brief dalliance with college experimentation. Luckily, Brittany usually does it for her whenever the subject comes up.

And Rachel really needs to stop thinking about all of this again.

They're here to celebrate her success. With alcohol and terrible karaoke.

And speaking of alcohol, "Another round for my friends," Rachel calls out to the waitress as she passes by.

"Now you're speaking my language," Santana approves, downing the rest of her drink to make room for the next.

Brittany's brows furrow. "I thought Spanish was your language."

"That and tequila," Santana declares with a nod, "so keep 'em coming, Second Hand Rose."

Rachel only shakes her head at the benign epithet, but Brittany leans closer to her wife, flatly reminding her that, "Her name is Rachel."

"I know. It's…" Santana begins to explain before she changes her mind, "not important," she dismisses, taking advantage of Brittany's proximity to lean in and catch her wife's mouth in a (relatively) chaste kiss.

A fond smile dances across Quinn's lips as she turns her gaze away from the happy couple to look at Rachel. "So how does it feel to be back on top?" she asks.

"I wouldn't say I'm there yet," Rachel demurs. Once upon a time—possibly last year—such a statement would have been false modesty, but after, as Santana had so colorfully pointed out, _fucking up_ her last opportunity so badly, she really isn't taking anything for granted.

"But you will be. You were amazing tonight," Quinn assures her with unabashed pride. "I'm so glad I was here to see it."

"I'm so glad you're here too, Quinn," Rachel gushes with perhaps a tad bit too much affection, instantly blushing when she registers the almost dreamy quality of her voice. She quickly pulls her eyes away from Quinn, clearing her throat self-consciously before she adds, "All of you," in an attempt to downplay her momentary distraction.

Santana, having pulled herself away from Brittany, rolls her eyes. "Like we ever would have heard the end of it if we'd missed it."

Brittany nods in agreement. "You reminded me twenty-eight times that I didn't come to your last one, but I didn't like you nearly as much then."

Rachel frowns, and Kurt shakes his head. "Don't listen to them, Rachel. There's nowhere else we'd rather be tonight."

"I can think of a few places," Santana says, grinning wickedly at her wife.

Quinn rolls her eyes, reaching for her glass. "Keep them to yourself, please. Some of us are actually here to celebrate Rachel's success, not your sex life."

"Our sex life is pretty awesome," Brittany announces. "It really should be celebrated."

Santana barks out a laugh, lifting her newly refilled glass thanks to their exceptional waitress. "Here's to awesome sex," she cheers. "Sucks that you two aren't having any."

Rachel's mind instantly connects Santana's catty observation to an image of herself and Quinn and sex being had _together_ , and her mouth goes dry. "We…we're," she stammers, grasping for an appropriate rebuttal.

"Pathetically single," Santana finishes for her with a smirk.

"We're not pathetic," Rachel argues heatedly. "We're merely waiting for the right person. Isn't that right, Quinn?" she asks, glancing at Quinn with an encouraging smile in the hope of lobbying some support. But Quinn is staring down at the table, chewing on the corner of her lip.

"Quinn?" Rachel prompts with a frown.

"Yeah," Quinn breathes out, glancing away. "The right person," she agrees quietly. Rachel really hopes that she isn't thinking about Noah.

"Oh, please," Santana scoffs. "You're both young and hot. You should be jumping on Mister Right Now while you wait." She flashes an evil smile. "Or _Miss_ Right Now."

"But if you miss right now, you'd be missing me and San make the whole place want us when we do it on the stage," Brittany tells them with a grin.

Santana practically chokes on her tequila, slamming her glass back on the table and lifting her other hand to catch the liquor dribbling out of her mouth. Brittany frowns and reaches over to pat her on the back.

"You mean a duet, right?" Kurt asks warily.

Brittany rolls her eyes. "Yeah. That's what I said." She turns to her wife with an eager smile. "Come on, San. I want to sing something sexy with you."

Clearing her throat, Santana takes a breath, looking as if she's about to protest, but the hopeful expression on Brittany's face stops her short, and she sighs. "Let's go see what they have to choose from," she relents, though the offer is noticeably lacking in enthusiasm. Brittany, however, doesn't seem to mind, and she bounces up from the table, grabbing Santana's hand and tugging her along.

"My glass better be full when I get back," she calls out over her shoulder.

Kurt grins, raising his hand and snapping his wrist in a whipping motion as he makes the appropriate sound effect.

"Don't be so cocky," Blaine warns him with a grin of his own. "I plan to get you up there before the night is over."

Kurt shrugs. "I have no objections to that. You know how I love the spotlight."

Soon enough, Brittany and Santana are on the stage, and true to her word, Brittany is leading her wife into a duet of "Can't Remember To Forget You" with all the pronouns changed appropriately and sexy choreography that catches the attention of everyone in the bar.

"Oh, my," Rachel breathes appreciatively. "They're certainly throwing themselves into their performance."

Quinn's eyes are on their friends as well, and she hums in agreement. "Hopefully, they'll keep their clothes on. Brittany _does_ have a few drinks in her already."

Rachel snorts out a laugh at the reminder of Brittany's youthful indiscretions, immediately covering her mouth in embarrassment. "This isn't high school anymore," she chides.

Quinn turns to gaze at her with an odd expression. "No. It really isn't."

Rachel wants to question whether the statement has some deeper meaning, but Quinn is already turning back to the stage to cheer on Brittany and Santana, so Rachel does the same, and the moment passes.

As the evening progresses, Blaine does get Kurt onto the stage as well, and the waitress keeps filling everyone's glasses with their alcohol of choice until Rachel is feeling more than a little buzzed. Of course, that doesn't stop her from taking a turn on stage, belting out a superb (if she does say so herself) rendition of Pat Benatar's, "Hit Me With Your Best Shot."

Quinn excuses herself to the restroom shortly after Rachel sits back down, but she doesn't think anything of it, falling back into conversation with Kurt. She's barely paying attention to the music playing in the background—something slow and mellow—until she registers the soft, smoky voice, and her head whips around to stare at the stage in disbelief.

Quinn is standing behind the microphone, one trembling hand resting on the stand and eyes cast down to the floor as she sings.

 _"I watched you sleeping quietly in my bed._  
_You don't know this now,_  
_but there's some things that need to be said._  
_And it's all that I can hear._  
_It's more than I can bear."_

Just then, Quinn's gaze comes up and unerringly finds Rachel in the audience, and Rachel nearly loses her breath at what she thinks she sees there.

 _"What if I fall and hurt myself?_  
_Would you know how to fix me?_  
_What if I went and lost myself?_  
_Would you know where to find me?_  
_If I forgot who I am,_  
_would you please remind me?_

_"Oh 'cause without you things go hazy."_

Rachel might be a little bit tipsy, but it very much feels like Quinn is singing this song to her and only her. Her eyes widen in realization at the thought, and she watches Quinn's gaze nervously dart away as she repeats the chorus, but halfway through it, those hazel eyes are drawn back to Rachel like a magnet. Rachel thinks of last night, of the intimate conversation and the easy touch of hands that sought each other's skin with perhaps a bit more frequency than expected of a simple friendship. Nothing about her relationship with Quinn has ever been simple.

Rachel is still frozen with the shock of realization when the last notes of Quinn's impromptu performance fade. The bar erupts in applause, and Quinn ducks her head, giving an uncertain nod before she rushes off the stage—and right out of the bar.

A hard shove to her shoulder tips Rachel off balance, and she turns her head in hazy confusion to find Santana scowling at her. "What are you waiting for, Berry? Get off your ass and go after her," she demands.

"B-but…? What just happened?" she asks dumbly.

Santana rolls her eyes as Brittany shakes her head in pity. "Please tell me you're not really that clueless," Santana hisses.

"It really has been coming for a while now," Kurt agrees. "You should let her down gently," he suggests sympathetically.

"Or...you know, not," Brittany counters. "Because you've been making moony eyes at her forever, and now's your chance to get some sweet, lady kisses of your own."

"If you get off your ass and go after her," Santana repeats heatedly. "Before she does something stupid, like take home some guy with a mohawk to forget you."

The shock of Santana's words have Rachel stumbling out of her chair, heedless to the fact that she's practically tipped it over, and running for the door. The blast of chilly air that greets her once she's outside finishes sobering her up, and she frantically looks around for Quinn.

She doesn't have to look very far. Quinn is standing just down the block with her back leaning against the building, head bowed and faced pressed into her hands. Rachel takes in the sight of her, feeling her heart twist and lurch and race in Quinn's direction. Every complicated moment of their past, present, and future collide to create a startlingly clear vision, and Rachel knows exactly what she needs to do.

Walking over to Quinn, she leans against the wall next to her, mirroring her stance, though her eyes never leave Quinn's profile.

"I know how to fix you," she says into the silence.

Quinn inhales sharply, dropping her hands but not lifting her head.

"And I know where to find you," Rachel adds with a soft smile, watching as Quinn finally looks up at her with questioning eyes. "And I'll always remind you," she promises.

"Rachel?"

"You're Quinn Fabray," Rachel continues without hesitation. "The prettiest girl I've ever met, but you're a lot more than that." Moistening her lips, Rachel turns to Quinn, reaching down to grasp her hand. "And...if...if you meant what you sang in there, I think...I'd like to see if you can be even more than that to me."

Quinn chokes back a silent sob, nodding in disbelief. "I meant it."

Rachel smiles, tugging Quinn's hand until they're standing close. "As much as I appreciate dramatic, musical confessions, you could have just said something."

Quinn shrugs. "I'm saying it now." She lifts her free hand to gently cup Rachel's cheek. "Without you, things go hazy."

Rachel chuckles, leaning in. "Then let me make it clear," she whispers in the moment before their lips meet for the first time.

Around them, there is nothing but clear skies and brilliant, bright stars.


	15. Handling It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** An extended drabble by request set in the _A Soft White_ universe. (Slightly)Possessive!Rachel.

Rachel is trying her best not to zone out of a conversation with Gary, one of the writers of Quinn’s show,  _ Fate Accompli.  _ It’s currently heading into its fifth season, and frankly, Rachel thinks the writing is getting a little lazy, but Quinn is still under contract until next year, so she’s still obligated to come to the Upfronts and tell everyone how much she still loves the show even though her film career is really taking off now. And since Quinn is obligated to be here, Rachel is obligated to be at her side. Well, mostly at her side.

Quinn does have press to do, after all, so Rachel does her best to keep herself entertained in the meantime. Sadly, the conversation with Gary isn’t quite cutting it tonight. Her eyes are busily scanning the crowd in search of her wife while one ear vaguely follows Gary’s dissertation on his own brilliance when she finally spots Quinn - with Ben Easton’s slimy arm looped around her shoulder as they talk to a reporter.

Growling, Rachel barely manages a clipped, “Excuse me,” to Gary before she’s marching across the room.

She’s not jealous. She’s just really, really annoyed with that over-gelled, oversexed, egomaniac touching her wife. 

Again. 

As Rachel approaches, she can see the discomfort radiating off of Quinn’s tense body as she hears Ben’s smarmy voice telling the reporter, “Everyone is rooting for David and Casey to get back together. Dasey forever,” he recites with a wide smile and an irritating wink to the camera in front of them.

“Can your fans take that as a promise?” the reporter asks Quinn with a lilt of humor in her voice.

Rachel watches her wife smile - that fake, too-sweet smile meant to lead people into a false sense of security. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she teases in saccharine tones.  “David will have to do some major groveling to get back into Casey’s good graces. All I can say is keep watching.”  

And really, Rachel knows the plan - as of right now at least - is actually for Casey to get a new love interest this season because Quinn hates working with Ben, and the producers want to keep her happy in the hopes of maybe convincing her to extend her contract.

She isn’t planning to. There are too many potential film roles coming Quinn’s way. 

Rachel, conscious of being in a professional environment, barely waits until the reporter thanks the duo and the camera turns away before she moves  - just as Quinn shrugs Ben’s arm off her shoulder with a scowl.  

“Aw, don’t be like that, babe,” he coos.

“I’m not your babe,” Quinn snaps, taking an extra step away from him now that she’s able.

“She’s mine,” Rachel reminds him testily, sliding into Quinn’s side and slipping an arm around her waist - happy to feel Quinn reciprocate before leaning into her. “And I happen to know that my wife has repeatedly asked you to stay in your own personal space when you’re not specifically filming a scene between your characters. Is there a reason that you keep failing to comply with her request?”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Please. I’m just playing it up for the cameras. It’s no big thing.”

“Funny. That’s what I’ve heard about a certain part of your anatomy,” Rachel muses with smirk. “Candy, wasn’t it?” she asks, glancing up at Quinn.

Quinn laughs, shaking her head. “It was  _ Sandy _ , sweetheart,” she corrects gently. “Also Paula. And Carrie. And just about every female extra who’s ever been on set.”

“Fuck you both,” Ben hisses lowly.

“No, thank you,” Rachel declines politely. “Apparently, you’re not very good at it.”

He flips them off before spinning on his heel and stalking away, chased by the music of Quinn’s laughter. The arm around Rachel’s waist tightens a bit as Quinn gazes down at her. “You really shouldn’t have done that,” she scolds, though not very convincingly. “I still have to work with him, though thankfully not as often.”

Rachel scoffs. “I’m surprised he still has a job. He obviously doesn’t take direction very well.”

“He’s an ass, but I can handle him, Rach.”

Rachel frowns. “It’s him handling you that I have a problem with.”

Quinn grins indulgently at the appearance of Rachel’s (mostly tamed) possessive streak. “You’re cute when you get all protective, but you know you’re the only one whose hands I want on me.”

Rachel’s frown morphs into a sexy smile. “I can oblige you on that just as soon as we get out of here.”

Quinn quirks an eyebrow. “Oh? Is that a promise?”

Rachel leans up and brushes her lips over her wife’s grinning mouth. “Dasey For Never,” she whispers when she pulls back. “Faberry Forever.”


	16. The Fool On the Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** For a prompt on tumblr - _"Jesse witnessing a Faberry moment then getting jealous. He gets angry and leaves the two in their own world."_
> 
> Unbetaed. Post canon _Glee_ and not very Jesse friendly.

_It's a celebration_ , he reminds himself, swirling the cognac in his glass as he observes them from across the room.

They've all converged here at the new and improved Breadsticks (now featuring a bar to drown one's plebeian sorrows) after attending the dedication of the Finn Hudson Auditorium. Jesse snorts quietly into his drink. No disrespect to the dead, of course, but a high school auditorium in Lima, Ohio is rather apropos for a performer of Finn's caliber. That is to say—thoroughly small town. God forbid he ever say that out loud, especially in front of his wife, because of course, Rachel had needed to be here for this, and so had Kurt and Blaine despite just having become fathers two months ago. They'd even dragged baby Dalton (and really, could that name be any more ridiculous?) along for the trip, much to Jesse's chagrin.

Oh, Dalton is a perfectly nice baby, he supposes. Objectively speaking, he's not bad looking as far as babies go, and blissfully quiet at the moment—which has so far proven to be fairly rare—but that could be because he's currently cradled in Quinn Fabray's arms. Most males are easily rendered docile by Quinn Fabray—and a goodly number of the women too.

Kurt and Blaine seem content to let Quinn have her time with the baby. After all, she's half the reason they have him thanks to her generous (insane, but then all of these people are insane) donation. Of course, it's more accurate to say that Quinn is _a third_ of the reason they have him—the second third being Blaine's little swimmers and the third third being his own lovely wife who'd rented out her womb to facilitate his development. No—strike that. Renting it would imply that Rachel had received some form of compensation for wasting nine months of her life— _their_ life!—on a pregnancy that's done nothing but leave her depressed and distant and out of work with ten extra pounds and unsightly stretchmarks. At least Jesse had managed to get her the one Tony before she'd torpedoed her career. Again!

And of course, Rachel is exactly where he would expect her to be right now—attached to Quinn's side and cooing over that baby like he belongs to _them_. He doesn't! Despite having half of Quinn's genes and being carried around for nine, long, uncomfortable months inside of Rachel's body, Dalton belongs exclusively to Kurt and Blaine.

He's wondering more and more if Rachel actually realizes that. She's certainly been hovering over them and the baby like a new mother would, attempting to influence decisions that Kurt and Blaine should be making. At least Quinn seems suitably detached—more like a cool aunt who visits occasionally with expensive gifts—though Rachel is doing her best drag Quinn further into 'the family' than he suspects she wants to be. For some reason, Jesse has noticed that Quinn can't seem to say _no_ to his wife. Oh, she tries, of course, but eventually she just seems to cave right in to whatever crazy thing Rachel asks her to do—like being in the delivery room for Dalton's birth along with Kurt and Blaine.

Jesse had been left outside in the waiting room.

He also can't seem to say _no_ to his wife—unless he's directing her, of course, because he rightfully deserves to have his way in the theatre.

He's suffered through all of this—the pregnancy, the mood swings, the weight gain, the strange need to call Quinn for advice or pregnancy comparisons or whatever the hell they've talked about at least once a week for the better part of the last year—because he loves Rachel and he's a supportive husband. He's supported her despite her determination to sabotage her promising career at every turn, her unaccountable attachment to certain unworthy people in her life, and her stubborn determination to get her way even when her way is absolutely the wrong way.

Now the baby is born and Kurt and Blaine have their family and Quinn has her flourishing career in Los Angeles and Rachel is (slowly) getting her body back, so shouldn't Jesse finally be able to have his wife to himself again? They should be happy together instead of just pretending to be happy in front of all of their friends.

_Rachel certainly looks happy right now_ , he thinks darkly as he observes the way she smiles at Quinn and the baby; the way she leans closer into Quinn's space and rests one hand on her shoulder while she reaches over to stroke a gentle finger across Dalton's cheek; the way her gaze moves from the baby to Quinn and Quinn's soft expression as she gazes back with a tender smile.

A sharp stab of pain pierces his heart as he watches them, and his mind whispers the taunting reminder that his wife had wanted to wait several more years to start a family with him but couldn't volunteer fast enough to carry Quinn Fabray's baby.

"She might as well be married to _her_ instead," he mutters.

Unable to watch them any longer, Jesse slams his glass down on the bar top and executes his far superior storm out. He doubts his wife even notices—a theory proven correct when no one comes after him.

He gives her five minutes.

Then he gives her ten.

Jesse runs his hand through his curly hair with a tired sigh when he remains alone in the parking lot, knowing it's past time that he and Rachel have a serious talk.


	17. Calling All Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Short ficlet set in the _Must Be An Angel_ universe.

_And I'm calling all angels_  
_I'm calling all you angels  
_ _~Train_

* * *

She's been given many names in many languages through the centuries. It's a decidedly human habit that She has no interest in partaking in, even if Rachel Berry's excitable guardian rather proudly answers to Angel _. Angel_ has taken to addressing _Her_ as Seraphina for some unfathomable reason—the other guardian is simply far too attached to her charges and their human ways. It's the persistently irritating repetition of _that name_ being sent out into the ether that has Her finally appearing at Angel's side with an irritated sigh.

"I've asked you not to call me that," She grumbles.

If Angel had eyes in the traditional sense, She knows they'd be rolling right now. "I suppose you'd prefer me to address you as Quinn's Elusive Guardian."

"I'd prefer you not to address me at all," She grumbles. "And I'm not _elusive_." She's merely been doing this for a few centuries longer than _Angel_ and has learned that constantly hovering over the humans really does them no good in the long run.

"If you say so," Angel responds skeptically.

She sighs again. "I sense no imminent danger to my charge. So what is so important that you summoned me here?"

"Don't pretend that you're not secretly just as thrilled as I am that our charges are finally following their destiny. Just look at them," Angel urges, sweeping a wing toward their two humans.

Quinn is practically gliding down the staircase on a cloud of happiness with a wider and more genuine smile than any her guardian has ever seen on her lovely face. At the bottom of the staircase, Rachel Berry is beaming up at her with a clear box in her hands, inside of which is a gardenia wrapped with a light green ribbon.

And She has to admit, She _is_ relieved to see Quinn so happy and _alive_. Quinn's destiny had been somewhat hazy for a time—an anomaly caused by the delicate balance that hinges upon human freewill and the choices they make. One path had ended abruptly while the other branched off into far too many smaller paths to be seen clearly.

Until Angel had intervened.

She still can't believe that Rachel's guardian had managed to pull that off without being reprimanded, but She's secretly (very secretly and will never admit to any being in this plane or any other) grateful that Angel had taken matters into her own wings.

She indulges herself (only for a moment) with watching their charges. Quinn is lovely in a violet gown standing next to Rachel in gold, and Quinn's mother, who is being unexpectedly supportive of her daughter (because Judy's guardian is being a bit more attentive to _Judy_ ) these days, has slipped away to give them their privacy—something Angel doesn't seem to feel the need to do.

"You look beautiful," Rachel murmurs reverently, smiling shyly at Quinn, who flushes with pleasure.

"So do you," Quinn tells her with obvious appreciation sparkling in her eyes.

The thread that binds them glows brightly, seeming to pull them closer. Angel bounces in the air next to her, fluttering her wings in celebration. The box in Rachel's hands brushes against Quinn's body before they can act out any human mating rituals, and Rachel stops with an embarrassed giggle. "I got you a corsage," she announces, lifting off the lid and offering up the single flower.

Quinn bites into her lip as she gazes at it. "A gardenia," she whispers, glancing up at Rachel with awe. "It was you," she realizes. "You told him what to get last year."

"She means the Tall Boy," Angel points out needlessly, bumping Her with a wing as if She hadn't been checking in on Quinn at all last year.

Rachel nods. "I…he wasn't always very good at the little things, and," she pauses, gazing at Quinn with tenderness, "even with the way things were between us then, I wanted to make sure you had a perfect night. I wanted you to be happy, Quinn."

Moisture pools in Quinn's eyes, and she steps into Rachel, lifting a hand to cup her cheek. "I'm happy now," she vows, leaning forward to brush her lips over Rachel's in a soft kiss. Angel flaps her wings in celebration.

"Me too," Rachel whispers when they part. She reaches up to gently curl her fingers around Quinn's wrist before bringing it down to slip on the corsage, stroking the flower absently with her finger. "I can't believe I'm taking the head cheerleader to prom," she muses with an almost smug grin.

"You're not," Quinn argues, slipping her arms around Rachel's waist. "You're taking _me_. Lucy Quinn Fabray. The girl you gave your cotton candy to at the fair when we were kids. The girl you stopped your ill-advised teen wedding for…"

"The prettiest girl I've ever met," Rachel interrupts with a grin.

Quinn's smile softens. "The girl who loves you."

Angel practically flies through the ceiling at the quiet confession, but She continues to watch their charges. She watches the way Rachel's breath catches as she stares up at Quinn with wide eyes, and the way Quinn's smile trembles around the edges as she nervously awaits a response. "Tell her you feel the same way, Rachel," She urges thoughtlessly before quickly pressing a hand to her lips, surprised She would let herself slip that way.

"The girl I love," Rachel says almost immediately, and Angel falls back to Her side with a gasp, staring at her charge before turning to stare at Her.

"Yeah?" Quinn whispers hopefully.

"Yes," Rachel confirms without hesitation. "Of course, _yes_." It's her turn to lift her hand to Quinn's cheek, gently stroking the skin. "I love you, Lucy Quinn Fabray."

Quinn's smile is brilliant. "I love you too, Rachel Berry," she says before dipping head to claim another kiss.

"You got her to say it," Angel accuses, pointing a wing at her. "I can't believe she listened to _you_."

"It was a coincidence," She dismisses easily. "They don't need us to make them voice what they're so obviously feeling. Now if you'll excuse me," She says as she spreads her wings, ignoring the feathers flying off of Angel in her irritation, "I do have other charges to watch over."

She allows herself an indulgent smile as she steals one more look at Quinn, whose destiny suddenly snaps into perfect focus, irrevocably joined with Rachel's. Despite the certainty that She won't be escaping from Angel for a very long human lifetime, for the first time since She'd been assigned to Quinn Fabray, She knows that her charge is going to be just fine.


End file.
